


Promises to Keep

by iSABinE



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Uncle Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21735283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iSABinE/pseuds/iSABinE
Summary: When a hunt goes wrong, Dean is left to pick up the pieces and protect the most important thing Sam left behind.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	1. Promises to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly AU. Cass is dead, and the gates to Heaven and Hell are closed.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
-Robert Frost (Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)  
—

  
_  
1 minute before_  


It was supposed to be the last job. One last hurrah. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Dean wasn't supposed to be holding Sam together with too few hands, trying to stem the flow of blood. It wasn't going to end this way. It wasn't. It couldn't. Please, no. Blood frothed at the corner of Sam's mouth. He choked on words. Dean pulled him closer, propping his upper body against his knees, his head falling back against Dean's chest.  
"Shush, don't try to talk, Sammy. It's gonna be fine," Dean soothed, hoping the tremor in his voice was too slight to notice. "I've got you; you're gonna be just fine. The ambulance will be here in a minute, alright? You just hang in there for me, just for a minute, okay?"  
Sam, blinked up at him. His eyes were full and dark in the pale street light.  
"You with me, Sammy?"  
Sam nodded, his head stuttering as it bobbed.  
"Alright, that's good." One of his hands pressed his own balled up shirt against the hemorrhaging hole in Sam's abdomen, the other carded through Sam's hair. Sam's face was as pale as the ghost that had shot him, his skin cold under Dean's fingers despite the mild June night. Sam's eyes lost focus, the lids drooping and his shaking hands dropped to his sides.  
"Common Sam, stay with me; You have to get back to Tom," Dean pleaded. "Come on, man. Don't do this to me. Do not make me go back alone."  
Sam seemed to rally himself, fighting to open his eyes again. His breaths were ragged and choked. His hands weak as they slid on Dean's arms, one grabbing desperately onto his shoulder, twisting in the fabric there. Sam's eyes struggled to focus on him.  
"I'm here, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam's eyes sharpened for a moment.  
"De —n —Dean —D." The sounds were choked and desperate. Blood trickled out the side of his mouth.  
"I'm right here, Sammy. I'm not gonna leave you," Dean said, running his hand through Sam's hair and pressing his palm against his brother's clammy forehead, like he could hold him there, if Sam just let him.  
"T — T—om." The word was half a gasp.  
Dean nodded. "Alright, little brother. Alright. I will; I promise. Not like you even have to ask." He tried for a wobbly smile; Sam's lips turned up, and his eyes softened. There were tears running down Dean's cheeks now, and he blinked them aside impatiently as they blurred his vision.  
"Sammy," Dean said. "It's alright." Sam's chest stuttered with a breath, his eyes shifting, and his heels feebly pushing against the ground.  
"It's gonna be alright. I got you. I'm not going anywhere." Dean rocked him a little, and his brother's eyes dropped closed. The hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt went limp and fell. The hitching breath suddenly stopped, and Sam was still in his arms. Dean had been here before; this was what it was like to watch the world end.  
  
_  
2394 hours before_  


The boy was swinging his feet, watching them glide through the air, his head bent. The evening sun lit his dark curls, turning them almost auburn. He looked up when he heard the door open, curls bouncing. His hazel eyes were big, and scared, and —Sam. It froze Dean in his tracks. The boy looked up at them, his eyes wide, looking from one to the other. Dean felt Sam tense beside him, his breath catch. They stood there for a moment, and then Dean nudged Sam forward with an elbow. Sam started moving, his giant frame bending down to the boy who met his gaze, curious and a little nervous. Dean moved back watching them from the hallway. Sam's voice was soft and encouraging, the boy replying seriously. Dean couldn't hear the words, just saw some of the tension drain out of his brother's shoulders as the boy grabbed his hand and jumped off the chair. Dean huffed a laugh, remembering the four hour drive and a silent Sam who kept looking out the window rubbing the heel of his hands across his jeans, a tick he still reverted to when he was nervous.  
"What if he doesn't…" Sam had blurted out finally as they pulled up.  
"Like you?" Dean filled in.  
Sam shrugged. "Yeah."  
"Dude, he'll like you; everyone likes you."  
"I'm serious."  
Dean rolled his eyes. "He's four. Take him out for ice cream, and he'll think you rock."  
***  
"Thomas, this is my brother, Dean. He's.., uh,... he's your uncle," Sam said.  
The boy looked at Dean with solemn brown eyes. Dean squatted down to his level and held out his hand.  
"Hi, Thomas."  
Slowly, and with a glance up at Sam, the boy extended his hand. Dean shook it with a grin. The boy looked so much like Sam, Dean wondered if Sam could see his mother in him at all. His mother was a one night stand from Oregon. Piper, a waitress at the time. Sam had turned red as he stammered out the information, Dean pretending he didn't remember finding the two of them laid out in the back seat of the Impala, until Sam finally realized he was being led on and tossed a fat motel pillow at his head. The call had been a shock. The blood had drained from Sam's face, and he had stuttered his replies. He had had no idea that Piper had had his child, and it looked like it would have stayed that way, if she hadn't been killed in a car accident two days before, leaving a letter in the event of her death with instructions to leave Thomas in the care of his last living relative, Sam. Luckily, the number Sam had casually left with the girl was still working and social services had called to tell him he was the father, and now sole guardian, of Thomas. The next thing Dean knew, they were handing the poltergeist case over to Jody and driving the four hours to Oregon. The idea that Sam had a kid hadn't seemed possible. Crouching in front of Thomas with his tiny hand warm in his grasp, the idea became real. Sam had a kid; and Dean was an uncle.  
  
_  
26 hours after_  


Jody didn't have to ask. She knew when she saw him come down the stairs, bloody, sheet white and —alone. She pulled him into her arms, squeezing like she could make him feel something, but he didn't hold her back, just stood stiffly, arms at his side . She finally led him, more dead than alive, to his room and then the bathroom and, red-eyed, said something before closing the door, leaving him alone— wait, no— he had always been alone. He would always be alone now. Numb, he threw his bloody clothes in the trash bin. Sam's blood. Sam's blood on his hands, his arms, his face. Mechanically, he turned on the water and let it hammer, hot like a thousand needles, across his skin. Rust red blood ran pink off of him and down the drain.  
  
_  
2394 to 1 hour before_  


Time moved slower. It seemed, suddenly, like Tom had always been a part of their lives. He quickly clung to Sam like a lifeline in a sea of confusion. He missed his mom, and, most days, his eyes would well full of tears at least once. When he cried, Sam would hold him in his arms and hum Metallica songs to lull him to sleep, the only kind of lullabies Sam remembered.  
When he asked where his mom was, and why he couldn't see her, Sam would tell him about heaven, his voice soft and assured.  
When he called Sam "Daddy" for the first time, Sam flushed scarlet, and a smile a mile wide spread across his face. Dean couldn't help grinning too.  
The kid asked a million questions, and every-time he wasn't satisfied with the answer, he would crinkle his forehead the exact same way Sam did when he was researching something he hadn't found the answer to.  
At first Dean tried to hover at the edge of their lives, to let Sam have his space with his son, but Sam kept pulling him in, and they became some sort of semi-functional family.  
  
_  
5 minutes after_  


He had taken Sam, pulled his limp body up in his arms, when he heard the whine of the too-late ambulance. He had tenderly laid him out in the back seat trying not to jostle him, gentle with his head. He had driven, and kept driving, looking back at his brother every few seconds, minutes, hours, he couldn't tell. Sam could have been sleeping, except he wasn't. Sam was always moving, twitching, sighing, rolling over, his eyebrows drawn together in thought, even in sleep; but now, in the back seat, the rays of the rising sun illumined unnatural stillness. The stillness of a grave. The stillness of a blank sky before sunrise. The stillness of death.  
He never stopped to think about where he was going. He was just there. The trees were the same on the horizon, the grass the same, swaying in the breeze, but everything looked harsher in the light of day. He dragged the logs to build a pyre, ignoring when the rough branches sliced his forearms and nicked his fingers. The shadows had lengthened, and sweat dripped down his face by the time he stood back and looked at the pyre he had built.  
He wrapped Sam up in the thick wool blankets from the trunk, running his hand over his brother's hair one last time.  
He stood, lighter in hand, for a long time in front of the pyre. The shadows had stretched and then spread to enclose the world in dusk before his hand was steady enough to light it. He didn't say anything; everything had already been said, and he was afraid to open his mouth and let out the screaming in his mind.  
The last time they were here, he and Sam, they hadn't said anything either, just sat on the back of the Impala and looked up at the stars, for hours, just satisfied that they weren't alone.  
The flames ate up the best part of him, and he wondered desperately, why not let them have the rest? There was nothing to stop him from burning too, no one there to hold him back, or talk him down. A gun was tucked in his belt. His hands trembled, eager or afraid, but he had promises to keep— and miles to go before he could sleep.  
  
_  
1 week, 6 hours before_  


"I want him to have a normal life, ya know? Not this; not here in a bunker, but really normal."Sam swallowed and looked down at the table like the wood grain was fascinating.  
Tom was asleep down the hall. Sam had looked away for a minute, and Tom had wandered, lost in the maze of rooms for nearly forty-five minutes before they had found him quietly playing in a room full of unknown, and likely cursed, objects.  
"Then get out," Dean said, breaking the silence; Sam's eyes darted up confusion and uncertainty clouding the hazel. "This is your chance, Sammy. I want that for you, for him."  
Sam's eyes dropped again and Dean bent down to meet them.  
"Dean…"  
"No, Sam. You have a chance to make the right choices here. You have a chance to really get out. I want you to." Dean didn't mention how it cracked his heart to say the words, or how he went back to his room and downed a half bottle of Jack afterwords, but it was the truth: he wanted Sam and Tom to be free of this life of horror, blood, and pain; if that meant leaving Dean behind, then so be it. Cass was gone, Jack was gone, their Mom, and Dad, Bobby- all gone . He would be alone. So be it.  
"You could get out too," Sam said, glancing up.  
Dean shrugged.  
"Nah , someone has to protect the world from monsters." He grinned and hoped it wasn't too tight. He didn't say that he thought it was too late for him, that hunting was in his bones, in his blood, and in his breath, and he no longer knew how to live without it, if he ever had, but Sam knew all the same, without him having to say the words.  
  
_  
27 hours after_  


Thomas was asleep, a night-light softening the edges of the room and casting his face in a golden glow. Dean sat down quietly on the edge of the bed and reached a hand out to stroke the dark bangs out of his face. So much like Sam it ached. He bent and kissed his bed-warm forehead.  
"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly. Then he slid down to the ground, curled into himself, and silently wept.


	2. Dark and Deep

_ 30 hours -5 days after  _

Darkness.

His heart was still beating. 

The clock ticked on the wall. 

He wondered, if he never moved again, would anyone find him?

Would they open the bunker a hundred years after his heart had sluggishly stopped beating and find him? A pile of bones without a name. Laying flat on his back. 

His heart was still beating. 

There was a muffled sob down the hallway, and he was up; his feet moving, even if his heart wanted to stop. 

It should have been him. Dean should have been the one to bleed out. Sam should be the one here, holding Thomas as he cried. He should be the one coaxing him to eat chicken noodle soup. Sam should be the one talking about heaven because Dean wasn’t sure he wouldn't choke on the words. Sam should be the one rubbing Tom’s back until he finally drifted off, his arms wrapped around one of his daddy’s shirts. Sam should be the one promising he wouldn’t leave. Promising he wouldn’t die. 

_ 6 days-10 days after  _

The next day Dean started to look for a house. A real house. Days later, he found one that looked so white picket fence he would have laughed, if he could still do that these days. It was small and a little old, but with a fresh coat of paint it would be homey, or what normal people would call homey. It was no underground bunker, but hey, it could work. 

Tom’s eyes were wide as they pulled up to the house. A field and a line of trees blocked the little blue house from it’s nearest neighbours, plenty of privacy. Tom hung next to Dean’s leg, eyes roving around the yard lingering on the tire swing hanging from the tree. The realtor was cheerful and bubbly, battling the grey day in a bright yellow raincoat. Dean’s face felt tight and tired, he couldn’t even put an inch of effort into smiling at the woman, and her cheer faltered.The realtor led them through the house, occasionally bending down to Tom and trying to get a smile out of him, which just made him press closer to Dean. Dean figured Tom was entitled to a little clinginess, his world had been upended and then upended again. He had lost his mom and met his father, only to lose him three months later. Life probably seemed like a pretty scary place. 

“What do you think, Tommy? Do you think it will work?” Dean asked when they had finished the walk through. He bent down to meet Tom’s expressive eyes. Sam’s eyes. His heart clenched, and he squeezed the small hand in his own. The little head nodded solemnly. 

They stood in the front yard as the realtor drew up the papers; the grey drizzle of earlier that day had dispersed, only the occasional drop rolling from the trees and hitting the soaked grass. Tom’s hand was fisted in Dean’s jeans and Dean looked down at him. His eyes were still gravitating toward the swing. 

“You want to try it out?” Dean asked. Tom nodded. Dean looked at the realtor and shrugged. 

“Give me a minute.” 

“Sure,” She smiled, and Dean almost felt bad about his aloof behaviour. 

Tom actually looked happy on the swing. His eyes were bright like they hadn’t been in days. Something like a dimple stood out on one cheek. Sam. Dean wondered when the likeness wouldn’t be a pang. Dean gently pushed him, and Tom looked up at the swaying branches above him. The ghost of a smile crossed Dean’s face just for a moment. The realtor called him over for a signature and he pushed Tom, engrossed in the spinning branches, once more before walking across the yard. He signed what she put in front of him. Suddenly, there was a sound, somewhere between a scream and a sob. Dean was across the yard in the time it took the realtor to look up. Tom was desperately trying to disentangle himself from the swing and looking around wildly. Just as he spotted Dean, he tumbled out onto the grass and, scrambling up, ran headlong for him. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked grabbing Tom and half reaching for the gun tucked in the back of his jeans. 

“You were gone.” Tom sobbed, his eyes spilling over and his lip shaking. “I —I — looked, but you were — gone.” 

Dean relaxed and pulled Tom up. His shaking sobs muffled against Dean’s shirt. 

“Hey, hey... it’s alright; I got you. I’m not goin anywhere.”

“Promise?” he stuttered, looking up with swimming eyes. 

“Yeah, I promise.” 

Tom buried his face in the crook between Dean’s neck and shoulder, his sniffles dying out. Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the soft hair on top of his head. 

“Promise.” 

_ 3 weeks after  _

He wasn’t a hunter anymore. He passed jobs on to old contacts, stopped watching the news, avoided papers, packed up Sam’s room and his own, and, with one last look, closed down the bunker, packed Tommy into the Impala, and headed to their new “home.” It did become a home after a while. Dean fixed the leaking faucet, and Tom helped him paint over the hospital-green walls. They bought furniture at second hand shops. Tom drew pictures, and Dean hung them on the fridge. Dean warded the house from top to bottom, laid salt lines under the wood of every window sill and door, still slept with his knife under his pillow and his gun under his bed and with the door cracked open so that he woke to every noise in the house. Tiny feet pattering on the hardwood. Tom tiptoed into his room, woken from a nightmare. Hesitant and shy, he stood in the doorway and Dean slid over on the bed. Tom scrambled up next to him and, without a word, Dean wrapped him in his arms until his breathing evened out, and the rhythm of his breath lulled Dean to sleep, nightmares of his own fading to dreamlessness. 

_ 1 month after _

Dean put Sam’s stuff in the attic. Most of his stuff. Thomas had one of his plaid shirts, and Dean kept his laptop next to his bed, though he never used it. The day they moved out of the bunker, Dean had started wearing the amulet again, it’s weight still familiar around his neck. 

_ 3 months after  _

Dean even hung photos on the wall, feeling like a girl the whole time. Sam and Dean next to the Impala. Sam with Tom. The old family photo, yellow with age, copied and blown up. Dean with Tom, Jody behind the lens. Cass, Bobby, Jack. All the people that had left him alone. 

_ 4 months after  _

Except, he was starting to realize he wasn’t alone, when he would wake to Tom clambering up to jump on him in the morning, smiling about pancakes or the bird he saw out the window. The way that his cheeks would dimple, so much like his father. Dean would smile, groan and pretend to go back to sleep until Tom started to batter him with pillows and Dean would grab and tickle him until laughter rang through the house. Or when Tom would curl up on Dean’s lap and listen solemnly as Dean read stories to him, a dozen questions spilling over his tongue every couple of pages. Dean didn’t feel alone then, and he would smile, even when his heart felt like it was only limping along, a half of a whole. 

_ after  _

He missed Sam when he thought of a joke and opened his mouth, half turning, and expecting his brother to be there ready with an eye role. He missed him when he would lay still in his bed and pretend that he could hear him breathing in a bed across the room. He missed him when the passenger side of the Impala was empty. He missed him when he saw books, and salads, and stupid-girly-froufrou coffees. He missed him so bad it took his breath away when, in that split second in between sleeping and waking, he would forget that he was gone and expect to see his smile, yawn, or scowl across the room, down the hall, or at the door with breakfast and coffee.

_ 1 year after  _

He went back to the field the year after and just talked, told Sam everything. How he still couldn’t breath sometimes. How Tom still asked about him. How alone he felt. How lost. How he had kept his promise, and how Tom would have the normal life Sam had always wanted, and most of all, how much he missed his brother every minute, everyday. The silence had echoed back around him. The stars had kept burning and the world spinning and Dean’s heart— beating. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was short, but I should have another up in a day or so. I love comments; let me know what you think.


	3. Stopping Here

_ 3 years 4 months 2 days after  _

Dean Winchester didn’t like to think of himself as paranoid. Waiting outside of the school, shivering, even in his jacket, despite the autumn sun and the Impala’s black metal warm against his back, he, just for a minute, thought he might be. Not because he was waiting here to pick Thomas up from school, because that was totally justified ever since that Evens kid disappeared somewhere between the school and the bus, but maybe because he was an hour earlier than the swarm of protective mothers he knew would bare down at 2:45pm . The disappearance two days ago was the second, and the police didn’t seem to have any leads, the kids had evidently just vanished. Yeah, this was sounding like their kind of thing _ — _ his kind of thing _ — _ no _ — _ a hunter’s kind of thing _ — _ which he wasn’t anymore. He had broken into the police station the night before, not because he was doing the job _ — _ because he wasn’t _ — _ but just to know if it was their kind of thing, kids were disappearing. He had looked over the case files. He still had it, even if he was retired, because breaking into a police station? Not all that easy, but he had slid in and out, avoided security and cameras all in under thirty minutes. 

They didn’t really have anything. Matty Evens had left class when the bell rang according to Ms. Tate the fourth grade teacher, and according to Mr. Sedly, the bus driver, she never got on the bus. Somewhere between the classroom and the bus she had gone missing. Her classmates hadn’t seen anything. 

It was the same story for the other kid, Riley Heart, a little boy with blond hair in Tom’s second grade class. 

The muscles in Dean’s jaw tightened. He hated when it was kids.

He walked through the empty hall glancing up and down before surreptitiously pulling out an EMF meter. Nothing. Maybe it wasn’t a hunt after all. Then it screeched and lit up red. He stuffed it back in his pocket when the bell rang; the hall was suddenly full of children. Dean reached out and grabbed Tom’s shoulder as he made to join the throng. 

“Uncle Dean?” He asked a bit befuddled, looking up.

“Hey, you ready to head home?” He kept a hand on Tommy’s shoulder as he steered him toward the exit. “I was thinking you could head to Jody’s place for a couple of days. She hasn’t seen you in a while.” 

Tom grinned. 

“So, no school?” he asked as they walked out the door and toward the Impala. 

Dean chuckled as he reached for the keys.

“Sometimes you are not your father's child.” 

“Are you coming?” Tom asked, stopping outside the car. 

“I have some work to finish up, but I’ll drive out in a couple of days.” 

Tom smiled again. “Then I can show you the fort Claire helped me build.” 

“Yeah. Sounds awesome,” Dean said ruffling Tom’s hair before opening the door.

Last year on June 11th he drove a sleeping Tom to Jody’s place and took off, feeling like he was gasping for air, afraid he might break down, and he couldn’t break down in front of Tom. With Sioux Falls fading in the rearview, he had kept driving. He had driven all night until his legs were half numb and his fists tight against the steering wheel. The thing about living like a normal person is that there is nothing to distract you from memories, from the days of the year, or days of the week; all your personal tragedies loom on the calendar, and you aren’t knee high in vamp blood or crawling down a hole after a ghoul, so all you can do is remember. When you’re hunting it’s so easy to pretend you forgot, and then pretending turns to believing, and believing turns to truth. 

This year Jody was preemptive, and Dean didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing, but she had shown up on his doorstep at 6am on the 11th and told him to take off. He did. This time he made it into Utah before crashing at a seedy motel, bottles littered around him, drunk like he hadn’t let himself be for years. He had come back as soon as the hangover had passed because no way was he going to be the guy that dropped his kid off and disappeared for days. Tom deserved better, just like Sam had deserved better. 

  
  


_ 3 years 4 months 3 days after  _

Driving the five hours back from Sioux falls alone Dean wondered when he had decided to take this case. Jody had asked if he wanted help or if he wanted her to send someone else, but somehow this felt too close, this was at Tom’s school, and he had to do this himself. Hunting again without Sam was one thing, hunting with someone else was too wrong, even if it was Jody, this was something he needed to do alone. 

His throat was scratchy and his eyes itched. Staring at the road for ten hours straight could do that. He pulled up at the empty school just after 3 am. He had actually made good time from Sioux Falls. The fall air was burning cold against his skin as he pushed the door open and walked around to the trunk. All of the gear was still there. He grabbed a shotgun and loaded it with salt rounds. His bet was definitely on a ghost. He tucked his Colt in his jeans with silver bullets, just in case it was a shifter of some kind doing the kidnapping. Sam would have said they should head back for a few hours sleep and some research. Sam would have thought he was rushing into this blind, but Sam wasn’t here. Dean slammed the trunk closed and, scoping out the abandoned parking lot, headed toward the school’s side entrance. He may as well see what he was up against and then he could research what he needed to. The lock was picked, and in a few seconds he was slipping into the hallway. Moonlight filtered ghostly through the windows and illuminated squares of white linoleum. He paused, listening for any sound but all he heard was his own breath. He headed into the hall, and his feet sweeked annoyingly against the floor. He rolled his eyes;so much for stealth. He pulled the EMF detector out of his pocket with one hand, the other cradling the shotgun. He headed down the hallway, ducking into each classroom; the EMF meter jumped up a couple of lights on some of them, but nothing like the afternoon before. 

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come out, come out, whatever you are.” 

Unsurprisingly, there was no reply. He was standing about halfway down the hall in front of a glass awards case with trophies for math competitions and spelling bees, when the EMF meter screeched and lit up like a stoplight on steroids. 

“About time,” he said, dropping the meter back in his pocket and raising the gun. Scanning the area, he backed up against the award case, comfortable with something at his back, hard against his spine. Until it wasn’t. Something cold ghosted like a breath against his face, and suddenly he was falling back and plunging into water. He gasped and water invaded his throat and nose. His body tensed up like it had been shocked. It was dark and freezing cold. Above him was a silvery light. He was pushing against water. Flailing for anything in the dark. He struggled up towards the light, impossibly far above him. His lungs burned, and complete darkness edged his vision just before he shot up and choked on icy air. He gargled and hacked. Oxygen finally filled his hungry lungs. He treaded water, breathing in sweet, sweet air that burned like fire through his mouth and throat. When his heart stopped hammering against his ribs, and his breaths were less desperate, he took a moment to assess his surroundings. He was in water. That much was obvious. A body of water, outside: a lake, a pond, a wide river, hell, maybe even the ocean _ — _ no _ — _ not the ocean: the water tasted silty and mossy, but definitely fresh. It was dark and the only light was the moon above him. Gentle rippling waves rocked across the surface of the water. Ahead of him was a bank of fog. He spun around. Scratch that: he was surrounded on all sides by thick, white, fog. He swore. His own breath billowed into fog as it left his body, the September night decidedly chilly. Already he was shivering, his teeth chattering and his muscles jerky and hard to control. He had to get out of here, and quickly. Looking around one last time, he picked a direction and started swimming. His strokes started off awkward and after a few minutes they were downright embarrassing. He was so cold. Still shivering, practically vibrating out of his skin, so that was good. He would be in real trouble when he stopped shivering. The fog swarmed around him. The only sound was the lap of water on water, his slices through it, his gasping breath, and, increasingly louder, the pounding of blood in his head. He tried to head in a straight line but there was no real way to tell, he could have been going in circles. Sam said something about that once that people dropped in the middle of nowhere eventually always walked in great big circles. Dean had laughed and said that explained why Sam could never remember how to change the oil in the Impala no matter how many times Dean had shown him. But Dean had thought about himself: the same mistakes over and over, the same fears, over and over, around and around. He didn’t know if he could do it. He had certainly screwed up the first time, too many times to count. He would go around in circles and make the same mistakes. Like last week, when Tommy had asked him if vampires were real because Ms. Ralph said they had to pick real things for the class Halloween party, and Dean had frozen and then pretended to get a call on his phone, so he didn’t have to answer. It was so damn cold. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Then he was thinking of last weekend, and how Tom had helped him rake up the leaves in the yard, and how they had fallen into the piles that smelled of sweet decay and past summer, and how they had looked up at the achingly blue sky, Led Zeppelin’s “Ten Years Gone” playing on the radio through the open window. Tom had made a snow angel in the leaves and then buried Dean until only his face was uncovered, and they both broke out in laughter when Dean had sneezed, and the pile had come down over his head. His breath was rasping and raw, his heart hammering, and he was numb with cold. He wasn’t going to make it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

He realized he was gasping the words. 

Then suddenly his boot brushed against something solid and he fumbled and stood up on shaky feet, climbing forward, water pulling at his shirt; he had abandoned his jacket along with the shotgun, and jeans. Feeling like he was made of lead, he stumbled from the water and finally dropped down on a muddy bank. The fog was beginning to clear, and while he caught his breath, he took in his surroundings. He realized that he was most probably on the bank of a lake. He was shivering again. He forced himself to stand up and walked along the water line until he eventually came to some sort of camping and picnic area. So early in the morning, everything was still. He found a car, and with trembling hands, he managed a graceless hot-wiring and then was on the road blasting the heat. He registered, as he pulled out on the road, that he was leaving the Lake Thorton campground. Lake Thorton. At least 45 miles outside of town. How the heck did he end up there? 

By the time he got home he was still shivering. He hid the car in the trees and stumbled into the house just as the sun was cresting the horizon. He dropped his clothes as he walked to the shower and then let the pounding of the hot water warm his icy skin and send feeling back into his toes and fingers.

Nearly warm, he pulled on sweats and a t-shirt before collapsing onto his bed and almost instantly falling asleep. 

He woke up, eyes blinking and blurry, when late afternoon sun was slanting through the window. His head was pounding, and his skin ached as he forced himself up and to the computer. Time to do what he should have in the first place _ — _ research. He had experienced a ghost teleporting him only once before, and that time it had only been from the living room to the basement, right where its remains had been hidden. It had freaked Sam out, but other than that, it had been fairly harmless. If it was about remains, that would be a place to start. He looked up drownings in Lake Thorton; hacking into databases had always been Sam’s forte, but Dean could get by if he had to. He found a total of four drowning victims within the last five years, but none of them were remotely associated with Tom’s elementary school, so far as he could tell. Then it hit him (as he assured himself it would have much earlier, if his brain hadn't felt like mush, and if shivers hadn't been coursing down his spine every few seconds) that if the ghost’s remains were at the bottom of the lake then it was more than likely that no one knew the person was out there. He switched to looking up missing persons cases, anything associated with Tom’s school. The sun had sunk behind the horizon and the room was darkening around him when he found what he was looking for. He heaved a sigh, ran a hand down his face, and stood up, stretching his tender muscles. This couldn’t keep happening, he had a sinking feeling that the two missing kids were at the bottom of Lake Thorton, and he wasn’t going to wait until someone else went missing. 

He was dressed and sliding into the Impala by the time the moon rose. He ignored the way his stomach rolled, it was empty but the thought of food made him want to hurl. His body still felt like lead. His skin was radiating heat and he knew he must be running a fever. Everything seemed hazy and a little distant as he pulled up a block or so from the school. He managed to break in, if less stealthy and slower than the day before. 

He walked quickly through the empty hallway this time, knowing what he wanted. The trophy case was full of memorabilia, awards for art contests and math competitions, a little silly at this age, Dean couldn’t help thinking. He scanned the case and found what he was looking for, a trophy with a gold cup embossed with a bee. “State Spelling Bee Winner 1998 - Max Hamond.” He had noticed the trophy the day before, probably because of the bee. He looked around once more before working a wire into the lock on the case, praying that he wasn’t about to get sent back to the bottom of the lake. His hands were unsteady, but the lock finally turned. That’s when he felt the chill. It creeped cold along his neck, and he flipped around raising his shotgun. Across the hall, the pale ghost wavered, the moonlight seeping through its form. It was a boy, not much older than Tom with sunken eyes and blue lips. Water dripped off his blond hair.

“Max.”

The ghost didn’t respond but Dean recognized his face from the photos online. Max Hamond, disappeared in 1999. 

“Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.” Dean slowly slid the case open behind his back with his free hand. 

“So cold,” the boy said. 

Dean felt for the trophy, his fingers fumbling over the jumble of plaques and trophies, finally grasping the cup and pulling it out.

“You don’t need to be here anymore,” Dean said. He lowered the shotgun to the floor, keeping his eyes on the ghost. With his hand freed up, he reached for the flask of accelerant and put the trophy on the ground, moving slowly and deliberately. As he doused the award with accelerant and reached for his lighter, he thought this might actually work, and that it might really be this simple. The boy’s eyes followed him, his expression dead. 

“I know you’ve been down in that lake for a long time.” 

The boy didn’t blink, but opened his mouth; water seeped out with his wavering voice. 

“I wanted to try the raft. It was dark. I couldn’t find my way back, and it started leaking. Billy said it wasn’t safe, but I didn’t listen.”

“Was Billy your friend?”

“My brother.”

Dean didn’t know why he was talking to this ghost. 

“It’s going to be alright,” he found himself lying as he flicked open the lighter and set fire to the trophy. 

The ghost watched him with haunted eyes, and the trophy went up in flames. Nothing happened. 

“Huh…that was supposed to work,” Dean muttered, looking at the smoldering remains of the trophy. 

The boy watched him, and Dean felt sheepish under his unwavering glare. 

“I know it’s not your bones, but I was hoping it would have at least cut your ties to  _ this _ place.” 

“My bones?”

“I’m betting those are at the bottom of the lake.” 

The boy shook his head vigorously. “I’m not dead.” 

“Sorry, kid.” 

“No!” the kid shouted, and the glass case behind Dean exploded.

Dean ducked against the blast of glass. When he looked up the boy was gone, but then the doors started to open and shut down the hall. The windows rattled, and laughter echoed through the building.

“Crap.” 

Dean hefted up his shotgun and wished his body didn’t feel like it was made of stones. The only thing to do was find out what in this school tethered the ghost here. Sounded simple. Comb something like 80,000 square feet, find some random unknown item while dodging an angry spirit all while feeling like his head was floating and his skin was on fire. It was like the good old days. Except he was alone. 

He was on the third classroom, rummaging through shelves of books, hoping to find who-knows-what, maybe some lost toy with “belongs to Max” stamped on it, when the cold turned his breath into steam. He flipped around lunging for the gun he had set down on the teacher’s desk. Just as his fingers brushed against the barrel he was blasted backwards, flying through the air. There was a crack as he hit the wall that told him that the engulfing darkness was a mercy. 

“Dean.” 

Dark. Warm. Safe. 

“Hey, man, come on.” 

Been so long since he heard that voice. That voice meant that he was alright, that he was safe now. 

“Wake up.” 

“Lev me lone.” Dean groaned. He didn’t want to leave this darkness, sure that there was pain outside.

The voice laughed, deep and throaty. 

“Not going to happen, Dean.” 

Pain started to pound through the darkness and his head, bringing with it focus and clarity. 

“Sammy?” 

Dean cracked open his eyes. 

Sam. Sam was crouched over him and grinned when he saw his blinking eyes.

“Hey.”

“My dead?” Dean swallowed.

Sam shook his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

Pain was confirmation of that. Dean groaned and leveraged himself up, agony stabbing through him. Probably a broken rib, and the bruises were going to be colorful. His head roared with the movement, and nausea ripped through his gut. Concussion. 

“I’m hallucinating.” Dean sighed or groaned, keeping his eyes on Sam, whose brow was knit with concern. 

“What?” his brother asked.

Dean leaned his head back against the wall. 

“I’m hallucinating because you’ve been dead for three years, Sam.” 

Sam chuckled and sat down next to him against the wall.

“Well, a concussion on top of  104° fever will do that to you.” 

Dean’s stomach flipped, and he quickly turned aside and vomited, mostly water. Sam’s- hallucinatory Sam’s - hand hovered over Dean’s back. 

“Ya alright?” he asked as Dean wiped his mouth and sat back. 

Dean barked a laugh that was hollow and rasped up his burning throat. 

“Great. Talking to my imaginary brother, vomiting in my nephew’s classroom. Peachy.” He grinned tightly and completely sarcastically. Sam rolled his eyes. 

“Tom’s classroom, huh?” 

“Yep.” 

Sam looked around the room.

“He sits over there.” Dean indicated the desk on the left side of the room, near the door. 

“Does he still like  _ Green Eggs and Ham _ ?” 

“That’s kid stuff now.” Dean smiled. “ He’s moved on to reading  _ Magic Tree House _ and  _ Goosebumps, _ last week he had to sleep with the light on after we finished  _ Monster Blood.” _

He was vaguely aware of how crazy he must look, talking to the thin air, but he couldn’t make himself care. Talking to Sam, having Sam right there, even if he was just a hallucination, he couldn’t, he didn’t...how many times had he thought he saw him in a crowd? Long dark hair, a flash of plaid, a tall man walking by in the corner of his eye. Just like when Sam was in Hell: he saw him everywhere. He tried not to look closer, to suspend his disbelief. Sam was like the cat in the box, both dead and alive, as long as Dean didn’t turn his head and see that the tall guy walking past him was too old and thin to be Sam, or that the guy with the long hair actually had milky blue eyes and a serious mouth. He had wanted,  _ needed _ , to keep the illusion, just for a minute, that Sam was out there somewhere, alive. 

“I miss you, man.” His voice was rough.

“I know.” Sam said with a sad smile that faded quickly. “Can you get up?” 

“Think so.” 

“I would help, but being a hallucination and all…” 

Dean laughed and pulled his legs across the floor until his knees were against his chest. “Yeah.” His arms were weak and trembling, but he managed to push himself up leaning against the wall. Pain shot through his ribs, and he bit down on his lip to stifle a gasp.

“Ya alright, man?”

Dean nodded. “Good.” 

Sam nodded. 

“So, we’re looking for whatever is tethering this ghost to the school, right?” Sam asked, looking around the room. Dean froze.

“You sticking around then?”

Sam shrugged “Unless you want me to disappear.”

“No!” It was almost a shout. 

Sam smiled. “Then let’s do this.” 

They were still searching Tom’s classroom, Dean rifling through books and boxes of crayons, and Sam scrutinizing what Dean pulled out, when Sam pointed out that obviously something had to have changed since the disappearances had started up. 

“So far as I know, no one knocked down a wall and found a thirty year old baseball last week.”

Sam ignored his sarcasm. 

“Has anything happened that you can think of?”

“Cissy Black vomited all over Bradly Hepworth; Boxer the turtle died; the new Art teacher has a limp _ — _ ” 

“A new teacher?” 

“Yeah, Mr…. Mr. _ — _ I can’t remember.” 

Sam snorted and rolled his shoulders. 

“Fine, lets try the Art room,” Dean conceded. They walked down the hall, and Dean couldn’t stop glancing over at his brother. It was surreal. Of course it was, since it wasn’t real. He had to keep reminding himself because the hallucination walked like Sam, talked like Sam, his cheeks dimpled like Sam, and the way he shoved his hands in his pockets was just like his dead brother. Just like the crack he had heard when he hit the wall, the tightening around his heart let him know that this was going to hurt, but for right now, he could float here with his illusion of a brother, and for that, he would take the pain that would come with waking. 

They scoured the art room. 

“Hey, look at this.” Dean held up a painting, a tire swing that he recognized, a blue house in the background. “He sure didn’t get his art skills from you.” 

“Shut up.” Sam bent down to see.

A smile spread across his face as he looked the painting over. “He’s really good.” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, he is.” 

A cold chill suddenly filled the room and Dean set down the painting, reaching for the shotgun. Max was suddenly in front of him. His eyes were dark and angry. 

“Go away!” the boy shouted, reaching toward him. Dean fired a round of salt, and the apparition disappeared. 

“We better hurry,” Sam said, spinning around the room.

“This would be so much easier if we knew what we were looking for,” Dean muttered, “and if we could actually turn on some lights,” he added, as he squinted at the contents of the desk. 

“Don’t think you want to be caught creeping around the elementary school in the middle of the night,” Sam said, bending down to look at the desk.

“Hey, the kid’s name is Max Hamond, right?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, so?”

Sam pointed to the desk where a plaque in bold white letters, easy to read even in the moonlight, read: “William Hamond.”

“Billy.” 

Sam cocked an eyebrow. 

“The kid was talking about his brother, Billy.” Dean waved a hand at the name. “William- Billy.”

“So looks like we’re in the right place after all,” Sam said. 

“So _ —, _ ” Dean’s stomach rolled again. This time he managed to grab the garbage can, dry heaving. His head pounded, the pressure sending bolts of burning pain stabbing through the back of his head and his ribs. When his stomach stopped retching he looked up.

“Sammy?” he asked. He couldn’t see his brother anymore, and a wave of panic ripped through him. 

“I’m right here.” Sam stepped into his line of sight. “Still here.” 

Dean nodded and wiped his mouth, relief replacing panic. Shivers tripped up and down his arms. 

“Let’s hurry; you need to get to a hospital,” Sam said.

Dean waved him away. “I’m fine, Sammy.” 

Sam snorted. “I think I’m proof enough that that isn’t true.” 

Dean couldn’t contradict him there, so he straightened up and scanned the room. There had been nothing promising in the desk or on it. 

“What about the paintings on the wall?” Dean asked. 

Sam nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time we came across a haunted painting.” 

They scrutinized the children's art on the walls, and using Dean’s phone as a flashlight, read the names. 

“Yahtzee.” Dean said, pulling down a small framed picture of what looked like an apple tree. 

“To Billy, from Max,” Sam read over Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean cracked the frame and pulled out the picture. 

“Dean, Down!” Sam shouted suddenly, and without hesitation, Dean dropped, covering his head with his hands. A desk slammed into the wall behind him. 

“You have to burn it!” Sam shouted.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Dean muttered. Sam stood between him and the ghost, tensed like he could actually protect him. Dean dropped the painting into the vomity garbage can and fished out his lighter. 

“No!” the ghost shouted. Dean flicked the lighter on. Suddenly, the fight went out of the kid. His shoulders sagged and his fists dropped. Around Sam, Dean could see that a tear tracked down his face.

“I don’t want to be alone. It’s cold and scary down there.” The boy sniffled. 

“It’s going to be OK,” Dean said. “I won’t leave you down there.” 

“Promise?” 

Dean nodded. 

“I promise,” he said as he lit the paint warped paper. The fire hungrily ate up the painting, and suddenly the boy was gone, the air was less heavy, and a chill Dean hadn’t even noticed went out of the room. Dean let out a sigh and half fell back onto his rear, his legs finally giving out. The room seemed to be spinning. He wanted to close his eyes to make it stop, but he didn’t want to let Sam out of his sight. 

“You did it,” Sam said.

“We did it.” 

“Not really here, Dean.” 

“Yeah, well, I wish you were.” 

Sam didn’t say anything, just stood there looking at him for a long moment. 

“Let’s get you to a hospital.” 

“Not going.” 

“Yes, you are,” Sam said. “ Come on.” 

“You’re just in my mind, can’t make me do anything.” Dean was aware that his speech was beginning to slur. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, and it was bleeding; he could feel the sickly trickle down his neck. 

Sam let out a frustrated huff of air and crouched down in front of him, arms resting on his legs. 

“Tell me about Tom.”

Dean’s eyebrows drew together. 

“What?” 

“Tell me about Tom,” Sam repeated. 

Dean slid back against the wall and swallowed wetly, trying to keep his stomach calm. Sam was waiting.

“He’s smart,” he started. “ He loves animals, wants me to get him a dog,” Dean huffed. He looked around the room and then back at his brother, warm hazel eyes focused on him. “He sleeps on his belly and sometimes has nightmares. He’s scared of the dark, but I’m not allowed to say that; he swears he just sleeps better with the hall light on. He has dimples like you.” Dean paused. “Sometimes when he wakes up from a nightmare, he wants me to read _ Green Eggs and Ham  _ to him until he falls asleep.”

Sam is smiling.

“Sam…” Dean looked up towards the ceiling.“Sometimes I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do this.” Dean ran a shaky hand up through his hair. 

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” His brother’s voice was sure. 

“I don’t. I _ — _ he was asking about vampires, and I didn’t know what to say. And I’m the only one here. I’m alone _ — _ .” Dean’s hand was trembling against his head. “I’m not who I used to be.”

“You’re better.” 

“Sam…”

“Dean, you can do this. You practically raised me, and I didn’t turn out too bad, did I?” 

“Your dead.”

“You said that earlier.”

“I couldn’t protect you.” 

Sam sighed and looked down at where his hands met between his knees. 

“No, but that’s okay. I know you would have protected me till your dying day if you could have.” He chuckled dryly. “You already have a couple of times.” 

Dean wanted to reach out and touch his brother but knew as soon as he did the illusion would be over, so he held back. 

“I miss you, Sam.”

Sam looked up at him and smiled. “You ready to go to the hospital now.” 

Dean nodded. Sam stepped back, and Dean climbed to his feet, slowly and painfully. His legs felt wobbly as a flat tire, but he managed to walk to the door with Sam by his side. His body shook with shivers. The hallway in front of him looked a mile long, but Sam stayed next to him, encouraging, and coaxing him along and somehow they made it to the Impala with Dean only stopping to dry heave twice along the way and only falling down once. Dean pried open the car door and slowly inched his aching body inside. Sam was in the passenger side, and it felt so right and natural, like breathing. Sam kept talking to him, but the words were distant and only sometimes made sense. He kept looking over to see if his brother was still there. 

“Watch the road, Dean. I’m still here.” Sam said quietly. 

He somehow managed to make it to the hospital without crashing and to get out of the car before falling down. Sam knelt next to his head. 

“It’s alright, Dean. You’re going to be alright.” 

Dean was nodding. His ears were ringing. His head felt like it was so light it would float away. 

“You know your not really alone, right?” Sam asked, his hazel eyes earnest.

The amulet around Dean’s neck rose and fell with every breath. 

“I know,” Dean mumbled, not sure if the words came out right. Sam smiled. Suddenly there were people around him. 

“You can sleep now, Dean,” Sam said.

Dean tried to shake his head. 

“Stay.” 

Sam didn’t say anything. 

“Don’t go.” 

Sam smiled that sad smile, his eyes wet. 

“Sam!” 

But darkness was wrapping him up, numbing his body, and he was falling. 

_ 3 years 4 months 4 days after  _

When he opened his eyes the room was white and cold, and he was alone. 

_ 3 years 4 months 7 days after  _

They had told Tom it was an accident with a ladder and hammer, same story Dean spun for the hospital. Jody had brought Tom back and stayed to see if Dean was really as fine as he claimed.Truth was, Dean could use the help; he was still having a hard time staying awake more than a few hours at a time. He got ten stitches for the gash on the back of his head, and had a raging fever that lasted a few days on and off leaving him with a sore throat and a deep seated cough that was agony with the fractured rib, and of course the massively bruised back was just icing on the cake. He was dozing on the living room couch and could hear Tom and Jody in the kitchen, making cookies judging by the lovely smell wafting in. He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew was a little hand on his forehead. He cracked open his eyes. Tom’s face was serious and his brows drawn together in concern.

“I think your fever's gone,” he said. “Do you feel sick?”

“I’m alright, kiddo.” 

Tom didn’t look so sure. 

“I brought you a cookie.” He held up the doughy still-hot cookie in a napkin. It was an unadorned golden brown. Weird kid, didn’t like the chips, just the plain old cookie. 

“Thanks,” Dean said taking a bite.

“Are you in there bugging your uncle?” Jody’s voice called.

Tom darted a guilty look at him. 

Jody walked in and mouthed “Sorry” to Dean. He laughed light enough to not send himself into spasms of agony. 

“Nah, it’s alright. I was awake already.” 

“You two okay here alone? I was going to make a grocery run,” Jody said. Dean nodded. “You need anything in particular?” 

“uh ...pie?” Dean asked sheepishly. 

Jody laughed. “Sure.” After they heard the front door click shut, Tom rummaged around in his backpack and emerged with a book.

“Look, I got another Goosebumps from Aunt Jody.” He held it up for Dean to inspect. 

“ _ The Haunted Mask _ ,” Dean read out loud. 

“Can we read it?” Tom’s voice was eager, and his face was lit with hope. 

“Are you going to have to sleep with the light on again?” Dean asked. 

Tom shook his head. Dean chuckled, already knowing that Tom wouldn’t be keeping his word. Dean levered himself up slowly and patted the couch next to his good side. Tom curled up next to him. “This one was actually one of your Dad’s favorites,” Dean said. He remembered how Sam had kept the bathroom light on for a week after Dean had read it (with some minor and bloody embellishments) to him. 

_ 3 years 4 months 10 days after  _

Dean had called in an anonymous tip, and they found the bodies in the lake including the over thirty-year-old remains of a boy who turned out to be the missing Max Hamond. Dean went to the graveyard after the interment and salted and burned the remains, just to be sure it was all over. 

_ 3 years 4 months 3 weeks after  _

Driving home from the grocery store, an apple pie, lucky charms, a gallon of milk, and strawberries (Tom’s favorite) tucked away in the trunk, Dean turned to Tom, who was busy with a coloring book. 

“Course vampires aren’t real, but if they were, it would make way more sense to chop off their heads then it would to try to stake them.” 


	4. The Darkest Evening of the Year

_ 6 months 3 days after  _

That year Christmas didn’t creep up on him suddenly, but stalked him relentlessly. The garish lights, the cheerful music, and festive food followed him like a hellhound on a scent; he couldn’t escape it. He deftly dodged the red green and gold clutter of a decoration aisle in the supermarket only to be surrounded by a plethora of holiday themed dish soaps: Cozy Nutmeg, Winter Pine, and Cranberry something. He snatched some regular lemon scented dish soap and headed for the checkout. He wanted to barricade himself in the house with Tom and pretend that all this cheer wasn’t happening. The blaring holiday jingle pounding through the store’s intercom system made that a little hard. As did the Christmas lights he drove past, twined up lampposts and wrapped around trees; he knew they would start to glow as soon as twilight set in and he hoped to be home way before then. He drove under a banner splayed across the road: “Peace on Earth.” 

_ Peace on earth _ . He huffed. 

As he pulled up in front of Tom’s school, he turned the radio on looking for something to distract his thoughts. 

_ “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” _

Dean jerked the dial and the screech of familiar heavy metal filled the Impala. He relaxed slightly, his hands hanging over the familiar steering wheel beginning to tap to the beat. Tom climbed into the car with a grin. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean pulled out a smile, one he had been saving all day, and then some. 

“Did you know that penguins lay eggs, and protect them by keeping them on their feet?” The words rushed out of Tom’s mouth in an excited exhale.

“Wow, really?” Dean replied drawing his eyebrows up and turning the car back toward home. Tom told him all about penguins on the drive, and his voice was the distraction Dean had been looking for all day. 

_ 6 months 4 days after _

He was washing Tom’s hair and thinking the kid probably needed a haircut, while the five year old was babbling on about the snow that had been falling all day, Dean humming a response at appropriate intervals. 

“...and mom said when it snows, it’s almost Christmas.” 

The word caught Dean by surprise. He paused. 

“Tilt your head back.” 

Tom complied. 

Dean poured a cup of water over Tom’s head, careful to hold a hand over Tom’s brow to protect his eyes. 

“It’s almost Christmas, right uncle Dean?” 

Dean settled for distraction. 

“Let’s get you out of here, and then maybe I’ll get you some hot cocoa.” 

Tom took the bait and the question was dropped. 

_ Peace on earth.  _

_ *** _

Tom was asleep. Dean was sitting in the living room; a fire crackled and popped in the fireplace. A beer hung from his fingers, almost untouched, weeping condensation onto the carpet. The clock was ticking over the mantel.

_ Peace... _

He thought about Sam’s face, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way his brows creased when he was worried. He was terrified he might forget his face, felt the details slip out of his grasp sometimes even now. So he thought about it. Thought about Sam.

_ Peace on earth. _

He couldn’t forget that stupid sign. And cheap motel rooms. And Sam, Sam, Sam. 

The year before hell. Sam’s hasty decorations. Potent eggnog. Gifts from the Gas n’ Sip down the road. Sitting on the couch and having so much to say and not really saying anything. Then the next year, sitting alone in the motel room after Sam had slipped out when he thought Dean was asleep. Drinking himself into oblivion in vain hopes of keeping the nightmares at bay. Merry freakin Christmas. 

_ There is no peace on earth.  _

_ 6 months 1 week after  _

It was just a red door. A bright splash of color in the otherwise drab looking neighborhood he was driving through. So innocuous, he shouldn’t have even noticed it, but suddenly his mind was spinning. A Christmas without their father. Breaking into the house with a red door and the little yappy dog because he couldn’t let Sam be disappointed. He should have checked out the presents first, but he had been in a hurry, and that dog kept trying to bite at his heels, and he kept thinking that every passing car was going to be the one that would turn into the driveway, so he grabbed the nearest presents and ran, heart pounding as he climbed back out the window, dog following his heels the whole way. When he snuck back into their motel room, Sam was still curled up, softly snoring, eyes suspiciously puffy. Dean arranged the gifts and slid under the covers of his bed, careful to not make a sound. The next morning things hadn’t gone exactly to plan, but then Sam had given him the amulet and it was weighty like a promise. A promise broken so many times. Dean resisted the urge to reach up and touch the amulet he could feel around his neck.

This house looked nothing like that other house halfway across the country; the only thread that connected them was the red door. He wrenched his eyes away and continued toward the garage, picking up speed, so he wouldn’t be late for his shift. 

_ 6 months 10 days after  _

School was out for the holidays, and Tom was hanging out at the garage with him, sitting on a bucket beside the 2010 Honda Civic Dean was half buried in. 

“Did Dad fix cars too?”

Dean pulled his head out of the hood and laughed. Tom probably asked him a question about Sam two or three times a week. 

“Nah. Your dad couldn’t tell an alternator from a radiator.” Dean stood back and wiped his hands on the greasy red rag hanging from his pocket. “He was more into fixing people and problems.” Tom watched him for a minute, his brow creasing with thought.

“Are you sad because you miss him?” Tom’s eyes were wide and concerned, and his mouth was turned down with the seriousness of the question. Tom had inherited his dad’s emotional intelligence, and Dean feared it would mature into Sam’s talent for reading Dean like a book. 

“I’m okay, Tom. You don’t have to worry,” Dean said after a long moment, ducking back under the hood.

By the time they left the garage, the snow that had been falling steadily all day had stacked up, leaving the roads slick and the houses and streets looking like something out of a Christmas card. Lights glowed through a haze of muting white. It looked like that Christmas he and Sam had spent snowed in in the rocky mountains after a hunt for a Wendigo. Dean had taken a blow to the head, and most of the day had passed in a blur of nausea, aching head, an overwhelming desire to sleep, and Sam’s worried face hovering over him. The cabin they had holed away in was warm and dry at least, though Dean had managed to vomit all over the floor as Sam half dragged him inside. After Sam had settled Dean on the narrow bed and cleaned up the mess, he had grinned and said the best Christmas gift he could get was not having to clean up after a vomiting brother again, then his face had blanched, and he had jumped forward as Dean had promptly proceeded to empty his stomach all over the heavy wood planks. Tom suddenly reached up and touched Dean’s arm from the back seat, startling him out of his reverie. 

“You missed the turn.” 

Dean shot a tight smile into the rearview.    
“I was thinking we could get a couple of burgers; what do you say?” 

Tom grinned and nodded. 

Dean drove past the diner he had come to think of as their usual place because it was decked out in cheery lights and boughs of freakin holly. Instead they slid into the much more “atmospheric,” dimly lit, but warm and dry, diner across town. Even in this place, he couldn’t escape entirely, he thought as he grimly noted the cheesy window decals (reindeer, snowmen, and Santa Claus) next to their booth.They ate in companionable silence, Tom swinging his legs under the table and occasionally bumping Dean’s knees. Dean was too tired, deep in his bones, to even comment on it. 

_ 6 months 12 days after _

Tom was unusually quiet at breakfast, and afterwards he sprawled out on the floor with his crayons and started to color, his lips pursed in concentration. Thinking. By lunch time he had formulated his thoughts into a question, suddenly appearing in the kitchen where Dean was throwing together grilled cheese sandwiches, getting his attention by tugging on the leg of his jeans. Dean looked down. 

“Are we having Christmas?” he asked, with puppy dog eyes so much like his father that Dean saw his brother just for a moment: “ _ Is dad coming home for Christmas?”  _ Dean swallowed away the memory. Paused for a moment. The sizzling of the butter on the pan the only sound. Tom’s eyes were wide, trusting and pleading at the same time, and, just like he always had to Sam, Dean gave in. 

“Of course.” He coughed. “I was thinking we could get a tree today, what do you say?” 

A smile lit Tom’s face like a light bulb. 

***

Dean had spent ten minutes looking for Tom’s missing glove (found under the bed), another seven getting Tom bundled up, and three grabbing an axe out of the Impala and throwing on his own coat and boots. All the while Tom was practically hanging on the door, bouncing with barely contained enthusiasm. Now the two of them were trudging through the strand of woods next to their house, looking for a tree, and the whole time Dean was thinking about a Christmas years earlier when he had hacked a tree down with his knife.  Sam had claimed he didn’t want a tree that year, shrugging when Dean pressed him as to why, rolling his eyes and shaking his head when Dean had suggested cutting down one of the trees from the park across from the motel Dad had dropped them off at a week before. Dean had finally gone out alone to the park, but the glow had come off of the idea, and he had just stood there in the cold, thinking that maybe, at 13, Sam was outgrowing his older brother. Then Sam had appeared behind him, a sheepish grin, hands buried in the pockets of his hand-me-down coat. Not mentioning their earlier disagreement, the two of them had stealthily cut down a small scrawny tree from the park, Dean using his hunting knife, sweat, and expletives for lack of anything better. Sam had kept watch, and then together they had dragged the tree back to the room and decorated it in discarded candy wrappers and mini candy canes Dean had swiped from the front desk. They had stayed up all night,  watching TV and talking about stupid things, laughing themselves hoarse until they could pretend that they weren’t waiting for Dad to not show up, again. 

“I found one, Uncle Dean!” Tom’s voice echoed through the silent woods like a shotgun blast and pulled him from his thoughts. The tree was tall and skinny, snow clinging to its boughs like the last sane remnants of a fallen mind clinging to reality. 

“Looks great.” Dean said with a taunt smile.

The axe in his hand felt like coming home, and he wasn’t going to think about how swinging it, laying into something solid, was like a rush of electricity through his veins, how it felt like something he _ needed _ , like finally coming up for a gasp of air for the first time in half a year. 

Dean dragged the tree back through the woods while Tom ‘helped.’ He kept talking about how big the tree was and how awesome it had been when it came crashing down and how strong Dean was dragging it through the snow like a freakin one man army. They went to the store that evening and Dean let Tom pick up decorations from the sorely depleted decoration aisle. They strung lights haphazardly over the tree and hung the mismatched ornaments from the branches. It wasn’t enough to forget, and it wasn’t enough to remember. 

_ 6 months 13 days after  _

_ “ _ Merry Christmas Eve _!” _

Dean glowered at the cheery greeter dressed as an elf. He may be giving Tom a Christmas, but that didn’t mean he had to celebrate himself. Dean managed to stuff some presents in the shopping cart under a stack of toilet paper and Lucky Charms, while keeping Tom distracted with his phone. Dean always was quick with his fingers: hot wiring a car, getting into crime scenes with a fake badge; distracting a five year old was almost easy. He just wished he could distract himself: go on a hunt, lose himself, forget time, forget what day it was, forget —

The year with the ghoul hunt. Both of them covered in blood and other sticky unnameable substances. Battered and bruised. His wrenched arm throbbing. The adrenaline leaving his body shaking ever so slightly. Leaning against the back of the Impala. They were alive. Another hunt a success.

“Hey, Merry Christmas.” Sam holding out his phone to show Dean that it was indeed 1am on the 25th. 

“Well, Merry freakin Christmas then.” 

Dean grinning as he handed Sam a beer. Clicking their bottles together before knocking them back. The liquid lukewarm and the air muggy, sweat beading on his forehead. A December night in Florida. Sam beside him.

He and Tom passed under the banner again on the way home.  _ There is no peace on earth! _ , he almost shouted in his head. 

***

Leaning against the Impala in the dark and frozen night, Dean cradled a beer. His fingers, ears, and nose, burned with the cold. He looked up at the clear sky as he knocked back the bottle. The house was at his back, Tom tucked safely and happily in bed, eager for morning. 

To hell with peace. 

To hell with Christmas. 

To hell with —

“Dammit, Sam.” Dean rolled the bottle in his fumbling grip and fiddled with the label before looking back up at the stars. “You  — Dammit.” Dean cleared his throat. The night was glowing and white with snow. “How am I supposed to — . I can’t do this.” His voice was rough with the cold. “I can’t freakin do any of this.” He raked a hand through his hair. The stars, the sky, the flat expanse of snow, and the woods were all silent as death. 

_ 6 months 2 weeks after _

The sound of pattering feet ripped Dean from dreams of white silence, fear and desperation. His hand tightened around the knife under his pillow until the room came into focus, and Dean saw  Tom’s face peering around the door with a bright smile. Dean allowed himself to be eagerly dragged, blurry eyed, into the living room. Gifts Dean had wrapped quickly the night before with whatever was on hand (newspapers) were clustered under the boughs of the tree. Tom's eyes lit up, looking to Dean for permission. Dean nodded, and Tom squealed with delight as he ripped open a gift. 

“Wow, it’s a car!” Tom’s exclamation of wonder was raw and open, and Dean's tight smile turned into a genuine grin, not feeling like it was made of cracking plaster for the first time in at least three weeks.

“1970 Ford Thunderbird,” Dean said, dropping down onto the ground next to Tom. For the moment he wasn't thinking about the past, caught up in showing Tommy the little car’s distinguishing features, Tom listening and watching with rapt attention.

When Tom had opened almost all his gifts, he paused and told Dean to “wait a minute” while he ran to his room and came back with a box painstakingly wrapped in homemade wrapping paper with little trees in green and yellow colored all over it. He handed it to Dean with a shy smile.

"For me?"

Tom nodded.

The box had once contained cereal, but now held a piece of paper. Dean pulled it out and turned it over to see that it was a drawing in black and grey. The Impala. Tom had drawn him a picture of the Impala. He looked up. His throat was suddenly tight.

"You drew this for me?"

Tom nodded with a grin, his hands twisted behind his back, watching Dean, his body coiled and humming with tension. Dean set the picture carefully down and reached out for Tom, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Uncle Dean?”

Dean didn’t say anything, just pulled Tom closer. 

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Dean said, his voice rough. “Sorry.” He let Tommy go and then had him help choose a place to hang up the picture in Dean's room. Tom looked ready to burst with pride. The rest of the day, the two of them played with Tom’s cars and then sprawled on the couch, watched movies and ate candy like there was no tomorrow. Dean needed the distraction like he needed to hear Tom breathing next to him. Tom had fallen asleep on the couch, head resting on Dean's lap, his hand still wrapped around his new 1970 Ford Thunderbird. The TV was still on, playing some black and white Christmas movie Dean had stopped paying attention to a long time ago. He carded a hand through Tom's hair and closed his eyes. The memory came quietly. The Christmas that Dean had spent with Sam at Stanford that first year, before their contact had dwindled to nothing, they had taken a six pack up to the roof of Sam’s nearly abandoned dorm and hung their legs over the edge, looking out at the lights, talking about everything, except that Dean had to meet Dad in Sacramento the next day. Sam's smile was clear as day in his mind. The way his eyes had lit up when Dean had told him something stupid and long forgotten, the sound of his laugh ringing through the quiet, cutting through the night. A voice quavered from the TV.

_ "Sleep in heavenly peace _

_ Silent night, holy night _

_ All is calm, all is bright" _

Dean let his hand fall still on Tom's back; it rose and fell with Tom’s steady breath, and he felt something almost like  — peace — as he drifted to sleep. 

  
  


_ 6 years 6 months 13 days after _

Dean swung the door open on squeaky hinges and closed it with a snick.The house was quiet. The warmth rushed over him, and he sighed in relief. Trudging through 8 miles of snow had chilled him to the bone. He kicked off his snow caked boots and shucked off his frosted jacket. The snow on his hair had started to melt, dripping down onto his face. Wiping the melt out of his eyes with a damp sleeve, he padded through the kitchen and into the living room on socked feet. The mellow light of the Christmas tree spread over the room. Red, orange, green and blue lights twinkled among the branches. Tom was curled up on the couch, his mouth open, snoring slightly, his fist clutching his phone. Dean bent down and brushed the bangs from his forehead. Tom twitched under his touch, but his eyes stayed closed. He hadn’t been able to call Tom since that afternoon, his phone out of service due to the storm. 

“Sorry, I took so long, kiddo,” Dean said under his breath and then carefully scooped him off of the couch. He was getting too old to carry, but once more wouldn’t hurt. Halfway up the stairs, Tom nuzzled into him and mumbled something Dean didn’t catch. Dean bent to lay him on his bed, but as he rose, Tom arms twined around his neck, holding him there. 

“You made it.” Tom’s eyes were heavy with sleep. Tom hadn’t wanted him to make the 2 hour drive on Christmas Eve in the first place, but Dean had really needed that cylinder head for the garage before the weekend, and he had finally convinced a doubting Thomas he wouldn’t miss Christmas. 

“Course I did; I promised, didn’t I?” Dean smiled and unwound his nephew’s arms from around his neck, pulling back the covers with his free hand. He didn’t think Tom needed the details of the blizzard, the roadblock, and how he had to trek by foot the last 8 miles in order to make it back before morning. 

Tom smiled and nestled under the blankets Dean pulled over him. 

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled as his eyes slid shut, a smile still dimpling his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, kid,” Dean said and ruffled his hair before he closed the door eighty percent of the way and walked down stairs. He went to the kitchen and flipped on the radio till it was a quiet hum in the background, taking the edge off of the silence. 

_ “Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.” _

His body still fighting off shivers, he grabbed a bottle of whisky and a tumbler and then dropped down on the couch in front of the tree. After that first year it had kind of become a tradition. Cutting the tree. Newspaper or handmade wrapping. Watching movies and making themselves sick on Christmas candy. It was weird to have Christmas traditions, something that remained so consistent through the years. It was nice. The lights twinkled and played against the crystal of the tumbler and the warm amber liquid. 

_ “Someday soon we all will be together, If the fates allow,” _

Dean held up the glass. 

“Merry Christmas, little brother.”

He downed the shot and felt the burn warm him as it went down. 

_ “ _ _ Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow.” _

He rubbed a hand across his face and sighed. A slight smile, that was only half pain, touched his lips.

_ “So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” _


	5. Before I Sleep

_ 8 years, 326 days, 4 hours after  _

Tom’s lip jutted out, hands on his hips, brows together. He stood facing Dean across the kitchen. Toast popped up with a cheerful  _ ping _ . Dean and Tom ignored it. 

“We discussed this,” Dean said.

“No, discussing would require discussion, as in two way conversation,” Tom shot back.

“...” 

“You just said, no.” Tom folded his arms over his chest. He definitely inherited his dad’s stubbornness.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Well, there’s nothing more to say.” 

“But…” 

Dean could see a well-formulated argument coming. 

“No, just, no. You aren’t going on the camping trip. We can go camping together next week, when I finish work at the garage.” 

Tom let out an exasperated sound.

“All the rest of the kids get to. Jordan and Kyle will be there. You never let me do anything!” A reference to the Gettysburg field trip last year that Dean had vetoed, but really? Taking a bunch of kids to a field of ghosts? “Why can’t you let me be normal for once?” Tom shouted and turned around, stomping out of the kitchen, his feet clomping on the stairs. 

The words froze Dean for a moment. He was trying to give Tom a normal life. Sure, maybe living with your paranoid uncle miles outside of town and knowing more about hand to hand combat than the average MMA enthusiast wasn’t typical, but it sure beat Sam and Dean’s childhood in a competition for normalcy, but maybe it wasn’t enough. 

It’s not like he had anything against camping trips — except he did. He had worked way too many cases involving the mauled bodies of hikers and campers not to have just the _ thought _ of Tom out of his sight sleeping in the woods send his heart on a marathon. He absently buttered the too cold toast. While Tom thought of s'mores and ghost stories around the campfire, Dean thought of actual ghosts, wendigos, and werewolves. 

Sometimes he missed Sam — scratch that —he always missed Sam. He sighed and took a bite of the toast. What would Sam do? Sam would probably sit Tom down and have a reasoned and calm ‘discussion.’ Well, Dean was never any good at being Sam. He finished the toast in a single bite, that would no doubt have made Sam raise his eyebrows, and wiped his buttery hands on his jeans. 

Tom was silent and sulky, arms crossed and slumping in the passenger seat of the Impala on the way to school. Dean kept glancing over at him. A slight smile he did his best to suppress tugged at the side of his mouth at the sight of the ornery teenager, remembering another ornery passenger with the same stormy hazel eyes. 

“Hey, I was thinking,” Dean broke the silence as they pulled up to the school. 

Tom looked up at him, not breaking his scowl but not quite able to quell the spark of curiosity in his eyes. 

“Maybe — if you agree to some conditions — I could sign that stupid paper after-all.”

The effect of the words was instantaneous; Tom’s whole face lit up, and the dimple on his cheek made a sudden appearance.

“Really?”

Dean shrugged with a grin. “Wouldn’t want people thinking you're not  _ normal _ , or anything.” 

Tom scrambled with zipper on his backpack and pulled out the slightly crumpled permission slip. 

“Now, about the conditions…” Dean took the slip. “You don’t go anywhere alone.” 

Tom almost rolled his eyes but wisley thought better of it and bobbed his head. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“ You don’t go out of the cabin at night, no matter what.” 

“What if it’s on fire?”

The unamused look that Dean gave his nephew had him nodding. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I got it.” 

“And you’re taking the satellite phone and calling me every morning and night.”

“Cause that will seem  _ real _ normal…” Tom sighed, but nodded, pushing a pen into Dean’s hand. 

With only a slight hesitation, glancing over at Tom’s still childish face, Dean finally put pen to paper. Tom bounded out of the car like he was worried Dean might take it back, calling a hurried goodbye over his shoulder as he melted into the crowd of kids. 

***

Tom was packed: satellite phone in backpack, hunting knife he knew how to use stowed out of sight in an ankle sheath. He had rolled his eyes at that one, but Dean had pointed out how many uses a knife had and how any camper worth his trail mix had one. Dean ran through the inventory one final time and then helped Tom heave the too big pack on his too narrow shoulders with only mild misgivings. 

“I’ll be fine.” Tom grinned. Apparently reading Dean’s worry in his mother-henning or something. 

“Yeah, you will,” Dean stated like an order. 

Feeling exceptionally emotionally healthy and mature, Dean watched his nephew board the bus. He stood in the door like a normal parent  — guardian — until the bus was out of sight, then he turned around and headed to the garage, grabbed an already packed duffle he had dropped next to the door and tossed it in the trunk before sliding into the Impala. 

***

Slouching against a tree just outside the circle of wavering light cast by the undulating fire, Dean couldn’t help but think about how awkward this situation would become if someone spotted him. ‘Avoid being spotted then, genius’ the voice in his head that always sounded suspiciously like Sam said. He didn’t hunt anymore, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. He hadn’t let himself get completely out of shape or practice. After so long, it was like a breath of intoxicatingly fresh air to be back out in the woods, watching every step he took, sliding his feet carefully over the dead leaves to avoid snapping twigs. Even if the hunt in this case was actually just stalking (in order to protect, so more like body-guarding really) a group of 8th graders on a school trip, it felt like a jolt of adrenaline, like his body remembered dangers his mind was fairly confident weren’t lurking in the shadows. At least not here and now. The familiar weight of his gun at his back was comforting. Just in case. He could make out murmurs and laughs, occasionally even catching the tenor of Tom’s echoing through the air. He smiled. Maybe the camping thing had been a good idea. 

***

Sitting with his back snug against the rough bark of a tree, Dean took the phone call. Tom assuring him that he was fine and that he wouldn’t wander away from his teachers, was all much more reassuring when Dean was a hundred yards away. 

“Have fun, kid.”, 

“Yeah, okay, bye, Dean.” Tom had started dropping the uncle a few months ago, Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about it: on the one had it seemed more natural and it had taken months for him to get use to the title in the first place, years for it to settle naturally, but on the other hand, he felt like maybe he was losing something. As Tom hurried to say goodbye, Dean could hear his friends laughing in the background, and he felt a selfish twinge of sadness. When Tom was younger it had just been the two of them. He was happy that Tom had found friends, he was, but he missed him sometimes, missed the days when Tom wanted to play with toy cars and wanted to build a treehouse or read books. This past summer he was at Kyle's house half the time. Maybe Tom didn’t need him as much anymore. That was natural. He was growing up. Dean sighed and dropped the phone back in his duffle then slid down and used it for a makeshift pillow. He folded his arms across his chest in an effort to conserve body heat with the chill starting to creep into his bones. The forest floor was soft, and the smell of bleeding pine needles and earth was strong. He looked up, and through the gaps in the trees, he could see stars. That he should go get the sleeping bag out of the Impala was his last thought before he drifted off. 

***

He woke up slowly, the sound of birds a cacophony around him. He blinked his eyes groggily. Trees spread overhead. His body was stiff and cold. For a second he forgot. He sometimes still forgot, but it had been over a year since the last time he had woken up and thought that Sam might be there. He blamed the strange sleeping arrangements. He groaned and sat up as the place and time came flooding back. He cracked his back and rubbed his neck with one hand. He was getting too old to be sleeping on the ground. He stood up and stretched, roaring a yawn. The blue predawn was fading to grey. He chafed his hands up and down his arms, hoping to work some warmth into them, then sat down and rummaged through the duffle until he found a Snickers bar, biting off a chunk of his breakfast, he watched the camp. People started moving a little after dawn, teachers rousing glassy eyed students, cooking eggs and, Dean’s stomach rumbled despite the candy bar, bacon: the scent drifted all the way to him.

***

After breakfast the camp seemed to be headed out for a hike. Dean lingered and then carefully followed. Tom and his friends were at the back of the group. Dean followed their voices, staying just out of sight. Tom would be furious, thinking Dean didn’t trust him, if he knew he was there. Dean could see Tom, Kyle, and Jordan through a gap in the trees, and he pulled back slightly, sinking into the undergrowth but still keeping an eye on them. The rest of the group was moving ahead, the sound of the troop growing more and more faint, but the three boys didn’t follow, instead they were huddled together like conspirators. Dean shook his head caught between anger and a slight respect as he watched Tom, Kyle, and Jordan creep away from the group and head off into the woods. Stealthily he followed, trying to decide how he would get Tom to spill about disobeying the conditions he had stipulated without revealing that he had been there the whole time.His thoughts were suddenly ruptured by a scream. His whole body jumped into action, without a conscious thought. He was ripping through the trees and pulling his gun. Coming out into a small clearing, he took in the scene in a split second, summing up the threat. Something big with teeth. Tom, backing up with his knife out, if a little shaky in his hand. The two other kids, backing up behind Tom. 

“Get back!” Dean shouted, darting in front of the stunned kids. The thing was already charging. He fired, wishing belatedly for a shotgun. The thing was unfazed by the bullet and suddenly on top of him. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, the world spinning. Hot breath and loud roaring jarring through his body. He struggled to angle the barrel of the pistol and realized, through a haze of adrenaline and brutal pressure, that it was a bear that had him pinned. The air was pounded from his lungs, and black spots filled his vision. He heard a scream. Tom. Struggling to stay conscious, he aimed and fired, emptying the whole clip. Really, a bear? So that’s what got him in the end. For some reason, he had the irrational urge to laugh. He felt like he would have, if he could breathe. The black spots grew and his vision faded. Sam would like that, crushed to death by a damn bear. 

_Dean knew the second he hit the ground that he was screwed. The air rushed out of him and blackness pulsed at the edge of his vision, his ears rang. Mouth gaping like a stranded fish, he tried to suck in air while holding the amarock off his neck with the shotgun. His arms screamed, tremors wracking through them. He was vaguely aware of someone calling his name_ _in the distance_ — _Sam. Too far away to help. Too late. The putrid, sickly, hot breath of the giant wolf brushed against his face and down his neck, turning his stomach. He turned his head to the side to get as far away from the rabid clattering jaws as he could. White teeth sliced the air just over his ear. His arms shook under the weight like leaves on trees. He couldn’t hold it back much longer, and cold dread replaced the adrenaline spiked rush of fear. Pain lanced through his chest, and he gasped more than screamed. Not enough air. His arms lowered an inch, and the hot wet spittle of the howling wolf spritzed his face. Black tunneled his vision now. Someone was shouting. Sam was shouting. Dean’s arms collapsed._

_ *** _

“Dean!” 

“ _ Dean!”  _

_ He tried to open his eyes. Someone was shaking him, begging him to open his eyes. It was Sam’s hands that he felt brushing over his chest and cradling his head. _

_ “Dean, c’mon. Wake up.”  _

_ The fear in Sam’s voice spurred him enough to finally drag his lead-like eyelids open.  _

_ Sam’s face was hovering over him, breaking into a shaky smile when he met his eyes. _

_ “Hey, man.” _

_ “There were two,” Dean muttered, his voice small and weak sounding even to his own ears. Amarock were supposed to hunt alone. _

_ “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”  _

_ “You get it?” _

_ “Course.” _

_ Dean nodded. “Good boy,” he grinned.  _

_ Sam rolled his eyes.  _

_ Dean groaned and tried to sit up. Red hot pain shot through his torso, and he gasped, the air rasping roughly through his lungs and sending the pain ricocheting. Sam rested a hand on his shoulder to hold him down, though Dean doubted that the hand was the only thing keeping him on the ground.  _

_ “Take it easy. Stay still.” Sam ran a shaky hand over Dean’s ribs, pressing lightly. Dean tried, only partially successfully, to suppress a cry at the light pressure of his brother’s fingers.  _

_ “Sorry. Sorry,” Sam muttered. “Looks like you have a few busted ribs. _

_ “Ya, think?” Dean rasped.  _

_ Sam ignored his sarcasm, and his eyes swept the woods around them.  _

_ “Dad?” Dean asked, each breath a stabbing pain.  _

_ “He went charging after the first one,” Sam replied, looking around again, his eyes wide and worried in the moonlight. Dean’s head had started to pound.  _

_ “You should go find him.” He had to fight for each word, his breaths feeling too short.  _

_ Sam’s head whipped back to him, his brows coming together and his eyes narrowing.  _

_ “I’m not leaving you.”  _

_ “I’ll be _ — _ fine,” Dean panted, closing his eyes for a moment.  _

_ “Yeah, you will,” Sam said, patting his shoulder, “I’m getting you to a hospital.” _

_ Dean opened his eyes, “Sam…”  _

_ Sam shook his head, with a jerk. “Forget it. We’re going.”  _

_ Dean recognized the stubborn lines of his little brother’s face for what they were _ — _ solid determination _ — _ and relented. It was getting really hard to talk anyway. His chest hurt, and there was something warm and wet trickling down his side. He couldn’t get enough air. His breath hitched, and panic began to pound through his veins.  _

_ “ _ Dean!”

_ “Dean! Take it easy. Just breathe.” Sam splayed a hand across his chest, and Dean tried to calm down, he really did. Sam’s face was worried. Black spots started to bloom across the starry sky and across his brother’s face.  _

“Dean! Please wake up!” 

That voice was familiar. He had to help him. He had to open his eyes for Sammy. He had to keep breathing. Sam had said so. His vision was hazy, but then familiar hazel eyes were hovering over him, wet and worried. 

“S’okay, Sammy,” he said and tried to reach a hand up to touch him. 

_ “Damn it Dean _ — _ please _ — _ just calm down. Breathe. In ...and out. In... and out.” Sam said it like a chant and Dean grasped onto it like it was magic. Matching shallow gasping breaths to the rhythm Sam chanted; his hand was heavy and warm on Dean’s chest. Somehow they were in the car, the Impala’s leather sticking to his arm. His head was on Sam’s lap. His brother driving one handed, looking down every few seconds, meeting his eyes and keeping up the litany of ‘in...out’. In. Out. Sam smelled like sweat and fear. Dean was cold. Daggers lanced through his chest. Breathe, his brother said, but every breath burned and he was drowning.  _

“Tryin Sam, I’m —tryin.” 

“Dean?” 

Hazel eyes looked down at him, and someone ran a hand over his hair. Tom was cradling his head, his hands trembling. 

“T—ommy?”

“There was a bear.” Tom’s voice was surprisingly steady, though his eyes were red rimmed. 

“Y’okay?” It came out as a gasp. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m alright.” Tom tried to smile, his lips tight. 

“Good—.” Everything went black. It was hard to breathe. 

“Dean!” Tom’s voice came through Dean’s haze like he was talking underwater. 

“ _ It’s going to be alright, Dean. You’re going to be fine.” Sam’s voice was strained, and Dean wondered how Sam had gotten him to the car on his own. His words were distant, and Dean tried to grab onto them, not sure he could understand anymore, but, by the raw look on his brother’s face and the way that his eyes were full, Dean knew it must be important. His big, grown-up, seventeen-year-old brother was close to tears. _

_“right_ — _D_ — _bre_ — _” Sam said, lips moving glancing down at him. The hand splayed across his chest tight with tension._ _Dean was bone deep cold. Everything was shaking. He was pretty sure he was dying._

_ “ _ Wake up, please wake up.” Choked words.

“Sam?” Dean wasn’t sure that the word came out. It was dark, he couldn’t see anything, and a part of him panicked, until he realized his eyes were shut. He tried to pry them open. A hand was wrapped around his. Someone was touching his head. The hands were warm and small, too small to be Sam’s; Sam was a grown man now, taller than Dean, with rough hands that could easily palm a basketball. 

“No, It’s Tom.” The voice sounded almost panicked. “I’m right here.” 

“Tommy.” Dean’s eyes fluttered open. Tommy’s face was white, tears streaked down his cheeks. He was scared. Dean hadn’t seen him so scared in a long, long, time. He wanted to comfort him, tell him it was going to be alright, but there were other people now, crowding around, saying words that made no sense, touching him, sending more pain shooting through his chest, and then pulling Tom back away from him. Dean tried to keep ahold of his hand but it slipped out, and he slipped back into darkness. 

_ Everything was loud, and Dean couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t find Sam. Where was Sam? He reached his hand out hoping to find him somewhere in the dark, but his fist closed on air.  _

_ “Sam?” His voice was hardly a whisper and muffled. His eyes fought to open, and there were strangers all around poking and prodding. Everything hurt.  _

_ “Dean! I’m right here.” Sam’s voice cut through the noise, and suddenly he was pressing past doctors and nurses and grabbing ahold of Dean’s hand. His eyes were soft and scared. _

_ “I’m here Dean; I’m not going anywhere.” _

_ Dean let himself fade away, his brother’s hand wrapped like a vice around his.  _

_ “ _ —promise, I’ll be good. I’ll never leave again. Just— stay.” The words were whispered and earnest. The smell of antiseptic. A steady beeping. Hospital. He hadn’t missed these places. 

“Careful, I might just hold you to that,” he muttered, the words more slurred than he would have liked. 

“Uncle Dean!” The hand resting on top of his tightened. Dean cracked open his eyes, and Tommy was leaning over him with red rimmed eyes. 

“Are you okay? Are you in pain? Do you need anything?” The kid’s mouth was going a mile a minute, his puppy eyes fervent, and a relieved smile cracked over his face. Dean shook his head. 

“Na, I’m good.” His mouth was dry and had that cottony feeling. “Water,” he said on second thought. The kid brought over the stupid cup of ice chips, and Dean sighed but accepted the spoonful that Tom offered him. 

Tom hovered, his fingers moving like butterflies. Something flashed in his hazel eyes, and Dean knew something was about to break.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, hanging his head. 

“It’s not your fault,” Dean said, voice grating against his sore and still dry throat. 

Tom shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. 

“I didn’t listen to you. I insisted on going on that stupid trip —and—and I wandered off alone after you made me  _ promise _ not to.”

“We’ll talk about the wandering off later, but Tom” Dean reached over and grabbed his face, pulling his chin up. His hand was less than steady, and the weight of his arm felt like it had tripled since the last time he had moved it.

“It’s not your fault. You can’t really take credit for a bear attack.” His side was beginning to throb. 

“You were protecting me though.” Tom sniffed.

“S’my job.” Dean could feel his eyes growing heavy again, but wanted the kid to meet his eyes, to hear what he was saying. Tom looked up at him, eyes full, and Dean let his arm slide down. His eyes slipped closed. 

_ Sam was there. Dean knew it before he opened his eyes. He could feel the warm weight of his brother against his hip and could hear him breathing. He was so familiar with that sound, after 17 years of sharing each other's space, that he could have picked him out of a crowd by just that sound. In. Out. In. Out. He cracked open his eyes, and even the dim light felt like daggers. His brother was, sure enough, bent with his head resting on his arms where they were folded against Dean’s hip. Dean cleared his throat, and Sam shot up.  _

_ “Dean.” His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, but smiled when he met Dean’s.  _

_ He stood up and hovered over Dean.  _

_ “How do you feel?” _

_ “Like a 250lb wolf threw a rave on my chest.”  _

_ Sam breathed a laugh. “That’s about right.” _

_ “You need anything? Are you in pain? Should I get someone?”  _

_ Dean managed to shake his head, pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgewise.  _

_ “Dad?”  _

_ Sam’s face flashed something, his body tensing.  _

_ “He should be here soon. He was here earlier. He had to clean up,” Sam said, reaching out tentatively to rest a hand on Dean’s hand. Dean figured he was still drugged up enough to allow it. _

_ “So, how long have I been out?” It looked like the middle of the night, but Dean had no idea what day. _

_ “Three days.” _

_ Dean’s eyebrow shot up. Sam started to go off about Pneumothorax or something. Dean’s head was still fuzzy and starting to throb with a dull ache. When Dean gave him a blank look his brother sighed. _

_ “Both your lungs collapsed, Dean. One had to be surgically fixed. You were on a ventilator for awhile. You have four broken ribs, and you lost a lot of blood, on top of the concussion.”  _

_ “Oh, is that all,” Dean said. Sam snorted and ran his free hand through his hair; it was getting long and fell back on his forehead, brushing his eyebrows. _

_ “How did a squirt like you get me to the car?”Dean asked. The whole experience was a blur, and he had no recollection of the journey. _

_ Sam shrugged.“You’d be surprised how strong you can be when your brother is suffocating right in front of you.”  _

_ Dean didn’t want to think about it.  _

_ “I’m not a kid anymore,” Sam added. There was tension in his grip on Dean’s hand now, and there was something in his eyes, something Dean had caught sight of before. He wondered if it would break now and wanted to turn away and feign sleep, but before he could, Sam grit his teeth and ran a hand through his hair.  _

_ “I can’t do this anymore.” He stood up relinquishing Dean’s hand, turning his back, pacing the small room.  _

_ “Not making you hold my hand.” Dean tried for humor. _

_ Sam ignored him.“I can’t—I can’t do this.” His whole body was coiled, and his hands were shaking slightly. _

_ “Hey, Sammy, calm down,” Dean said, sitting up a little bit more and trying not to grimace as pain shot through his torso.  _

_ Sam shook his head. “You almost died.” His eyes were wide and haunted. _

_ Dean shrugged, “Perk of the job.”  _

_ Sam growled in frustration. “That’s what I mean. I can’t...this life. I can’t watch you die, Dean.” The last came out at almost a shout.  _

_ “Okay. Okay.” _

_ “Okay, what?”  _

_ “I won’t die.”  _

_ Sam rolled his eyes. “Cause that’s a promise you can keep.”  _

_ “I can try, and I have you and Dad watching my back, figure that's worth more—.”  _

_ “I’m not always going to be there.” Sam said looking down at his shoes. “You can’t always count on me. You have to take care of yourself.” Sam shoulders kind of caved in.  _

_ Dean swallowed. “What do you mean?” He wasn’t stupid, despite what people might think. He had picked up on the way that Sam and Dad were at each other's throats more than ever these days, and the way Sam bitched about the job, his open distaste for hunting; Dean had even seen the applications tucked at the bottom of Sam’s duffle. He had expected that this day would come. The heart monitor's beeping suddenly picked up.  _

_ Sam looked up at him, and his eyes were a mix of guilt, fear, and—love.  _

_ “Nothing Dean. Don’t worry about it.” _

_ Dean searched his face, and Sam dodged his eyes. He walked back to the bed and grabbed Dean’s hand.  _

_ “Calm down, man. I’m not going anywhere.” The beeping of the monitor was still a rapid staccato. Dean knew his brother was lying; he could always tell when Sam was lying. Sam’s thumb stroked his hand, solid, warm, and there, something Dean could hold onto.  _

_ “You can sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” Sam said. That was the truth; Dean’s heartbeat steadied, and his eyes grew heavy, each blink lasting longer and longer. He didn’t know if he could live this life without him, or if there would ever be anything else that would ground him like Sam .  _

For the first time, when he woke up, he knew where he was, and when he was, almost instantly. Tom’s hand was still wrapped around his, like he was afraid to let go. Dean opened his eyes, and the room was full of sunlight that was almost cheery. 

“Am I ever gonna get that hand back?” Dean asked.

“Hey!” Tom said, blushing and sitting up but not letting go, “you’re awake!”

“So, tell me what happened and why my chest feels like it was steam rolled.”

“You had a collapsed lung, a cracked sternum, and you were bleeding internally. You had to have surgery to stop the bleeding.” 

Dean nodded. Tom’s face was stricken.

“I've had worse, kid,” he said. His words didn’t seem to comfort Tom at all. He stood up and ran an unsteady hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. 

“You could have died. I thought you were going to—,” Tom’s body was shaking slightly, his hands unsteady. “And you—you kept talking about Sam—Dad—and ....I thought—,” he took a frantic breath. “I thought you maybe...wanted to… go to him. ” His eyes darted to Dean, and Dean felt his heart drop.

“I thought you were going to die,” Tom whispered and sniffed, then his face crumpled, and Dean reached out a hand. Tom grabbed it, and Dean pulled him in, ignoring the sharp stab of pain shooting down his sternum. 

“Hey, hey, kiddo. It’s okay. I’m okay.” 

Tom collapsed into his arms and Dean suppressed a grimace of pain, pulling him tighter and rubbing circles on his back. 

“Shh, shh. It's okay. I got you, Tommy. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured as his thirteen year old nephew melted into sobs. “I’m never going to willingly leave you; you hear me? Not till you’re old like me, with a couple kids and a beer gut, alright?” 

There was a watery gasp that could have been agreement. 

“You and me, kid.” Dean said “We’re a team.” 

And Dean realized he had found new ground to stand on years ago. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of hard, and I wasn't totally satisfied with the beginning (even though I worked it over multiple times!). Let me know what you think!


	6. Some Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Life has been kind of hectic, and this chapter gave me a lot of trouble. The next chapter is half written, since it was originally going to part of this one; so I should be able to update again soon! Comments are greatly appreciated :)

_ Now (11 years, 209 days, 19 hours after) _

The darkness, the trees, the pounding of his heart, the burning of his lungs, and the way his body felt like a car running on fumes and coming out on the wrong side of a fender-bender, reminded him of purgatory. Being pursued, being hunted, wasn’t new, but Tom running just ahead of him was. It had been at least five minutes now; Jacob and Ruddy had most likely discovered their escape, and Dean knew that the kitsunes could run faster than the two of them on a good day. Today was not a good day. 

Suddenly, the ground went out from under him. Dean tried to tell himself that he didn’t fall into the ditch, that it was more like a smooth slide into home base, but he didn’t quite believe his lie. His leg was trembling, and, when he tried to stand, it turned to jelly. He fell back with a hiss. Tom dropped down next to him, breathing hard, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” 

“We have to keep moving,” Dean said, looking around at the dark banks of the dip he had slipped into, half expecting a kitsune’s glowing eyes to appear over the lip of the ditch. 

“Can you keep running on that leg?” Tom sounded on the border of panic. 

“I’ll be fine. Just give me a sec,” Dean answered. 

He inspected his leg as much as he could in the dark. Even in the uneven moonlight, he could see the ragged tears in his jeans and the dark blood that coated them stiff. He swore under his breath. He would have to do something about it, if he wanted to keep moving. He was half glad he couldn’t make out what the claws had done to his flesh in the dark. 

The fight had been short, but brutal. He hadn’t been on his guard; the press of cold steel to his temple was the first he knew anything was off. He felt like cursing his stupidity. He should have never become so complacent and should never have let himself believe that he was really out. Now, he and Tom were huddled in a ditch, with only Dean’s small dagger between them and a pair of vengeful kitsunes on their trail . 

They were lucky to have gotten this far, lucky that Jacob had taken a phone call and left them alone after laying into Dean a bit, lucky that Dean still carried a knife in his boot, lucky the vengeful bastard wanted to draw this out in the first place. His mind was spinning, and he had a strange urge to laugh.

He forced his thoughts to focus, using the pain to bring him back to the moment. Dark blood, almost black in the speckled moonlight. Tom’s hushed breathing next to him. Roots pressed against his spine. Sweat beading at his hairline. 

Kitsunes had heightened senses, and they were stronger and faster than humans. Dean looked down at his shaking leg. They had to keep moving. He had only a vague idea of where they were, since he had been unconscious for most of the luxury drive in the trunk. Tom had said that the drive had lasted a couple of hours. 

If they got to the road, they might have a shot at getting away; it was their best hope right now, that, or a bowie knife falling from the sky. Dean pulled off his overshirt. Tom was still hovering next to him, body humming with tension. Dean wrapped the shirt around his thigh and pulled it tight, rocking forward over the limb as pain shot through his leg. 

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, for probably the fifth time in an hour. Dean nodded. 

“I’m good.” He looked up at the leaves above him, shadows in the moonlight, and prayed that they would stop spinning. 

“So, what are they again?” 

“Kitsunes.” Dean closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. “Like werefoxes.” Dean opened his eyes, and his nephew was crouching in front of him. “You have to hit them in the heart or they won’t go down.”

Tom swallowed and bobbed his head before turning away, his eyes wet. Dean had never wanted Tom to look at him like that, like Sam had when he found out, like the world had suddenly been flipped over, like everything had changed in the worst possible way. Dean wished he could take it back, erase the past day from their lives. 

_15 hours earlier_ _(11 years, 209 days, 4 hours after)_

Dean shook Tom’s ankle to try to wake him up, a groan and grumble in response. 

“Rise and shine, Tommy.” 

“5 minutes,” the shaggy head buried in the pillow mumbled. 

“Your alarm’s been going off for twenty minutes already, kid,” Dean said, tugging on Tom’s ankle persistently. 

Tom groaned again then dragged himself up, shaking Dean’s hand off. 

“Alright, I’m up,” Tom said around a yawn. 

“Got some pancakes ready downstairs, might have time to eat before the bus gets here, if you hurry.” 

“Can’t I just take the Impala?” 

Dean barked a laugh. “In your dreams.” He slapped Tom’s foot and headed downstairs. 

The morning was bright, and Dean was humming “Stairway to Heaven,” flipping another pancake over, when Tom stumbled into the kitchen, still blurry eyed. 

“I have my licence now,” Tom said, dropping into a chair and grabbing a couple of pancakes from the plate on the table. “I’ve been driving since I was thirteen.” 

“Not going to happen.” Dean scooped the pancake from the pan, flipped the burner off, and sat across from Tom. He reached for the syrup and doused his pancakes. “You know the rule. You can drive to school when you have your own car.”

“But I’m almost finished with the hatchback.” 

He was getting close. Dean was impressed; the car had been built up from a nearly gutted shell last year to a nearly functioning car now. Tom was good with cars; he seemed to find the same solace and satisfaction as Dean did in fixing things that were concrete and logical. 

“Well then, you’ll be able to drive soon.” 

Tom rolled his eyes, looked down at his phone and jumped up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He grabbed a dry pancake and waved as he tripped out the door. 

“Bye!”Dean called after him, hearing the screen door slam. 

_ Now ( _ _ 11 years, 209 days, 19 hours after _ _ ) _

Dean bit down on his lip and stumbled to his feet. His thigh throbbed in time with his pounding head. Tom’s hands were at his elbow. Dean jerked his chin forward. 

“Come on, run.” 

_ 7 hours earlier (11 years, 209 days, 12 hours after ) _

The garage had been slow. The winter sun streaming through the windows had almost lulled Dean to sleep. He sent Darrel and Alex home and closed early, thinking that, after Tom got back, they could work on the hatchback together, help the kid finish it up, then maybe catch a movie. He was thinking about the new Marvel movie as he unlocked the door and walked in. If he had been less distracted, and if it had been ten years ago, Dean would have instantly known that something was off, but it  _ wasn’t _ ten years ago, he  _ was _ distracted, and he felt the cold press of a gun barrel against his temple.

The clock was ticking loud enough to fill the silence between Dean’s breaths. His first and last thought was Tom. He could’ve belted out the hallelujah chorus at the top of his lungs for the fact that the kid wasn’t home yet. Dean slowly raised his hands. 

“It took me a long time to find you.” 

A man’s voice. Throaty and strong. The clock chimed three making Dean’s heart jump a little. Tom would be home any minute. He had to end this. Distantly, a car rumbled past, and Dean’s eyes involuntarily flicked over towards the door. 

“Do you remember me,” the man asked as he pulled the gun back slightly and walked in front of Dean, the gun now trained on his forehead. The hand holding it was steady, not the first time he pointed a gun with the intent to kill. The afternoon sun glinted off the barrel of the pistol as the man flicked it up, a twitch of the wrist, indicating that Dean should move back against the wall. Dean did as he was told with slow careful steps, never taking his eyes away from the cold gaze of the man. 

He was tall and lanky, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He had brown hair with a bit of curl and brown eyes that might have been soft once. Dean wracked his brain. 

“Sorry, pissed off a lot of people in my day. Your face isn’t exactly sticking out.” 

“Let me give you a hint: you killed my mother, and I told you that I would kill you.” The eyes narrowed, and Dean recognized them. He had watched that hatred be born in them, standing over the body of a kitsune. 

“You told me to look you up in a few years, it’s been a lot longer than a few years, but here I am.” 

“You were Amy’s kid.” 

“Jacob.” He rolled his shoulders. 

Dean swallowed, his throat dry. The memory came back like a sudden sickening plunge into icy water. He remembered the kitsune pleading for her life. He remembered her eyes flashing yellow with surprise, when he drove the knife in. He remembered the weight of responsibility nearly crushing him. He remembered believing that Sam wasn’t in a position to make a clear judgment, his soul ruptured and his mind splintering under the weight of 120 years in hell. He remembered his stomach twisting as he lied to his brother’s face, and he remembered how everything had blown up between them afterwards. 

“I remember.” 

_ Now (11 years, 209 days, 19 hours after) _

Dean started to lag; the burn in his thigh and the drumming in his head made him feel wobbly. The underbrush rustled with their passing. Damp leaves slipped and slid under his boots with each step. Tom turned back and slowed. 

“Don’t wait for me,” Dean said, waving him on. He ground to a halt bending to rest his palms on his knees. Vertigo nearly made him pitch forward into the nearest tree, until Tom pushed him back. 

Dean was saving up enough breath to tell him to keep  _ freaking _ running, when a flash of claws and sharp eyes pounded into him. He tried to control his fall and miserably failed as he was slammed into the ground, his head smacking the dirt with a dull thud that made his vision stutter like an old VHS tape. 

“Dean!” Tom’s voice seemed far away. 

He managed to kick the monster off and stagger to his feet. He felt Tom come up beside him and slip the little knife into his hand. The kitsune, which Dean had time to recognize as Ruddy, was grinning and crouched low, keeping it’s gaze fixed on him. 

“Go,” he told Tom, while keeping his eyes on Ruddy and flipping the knife in his hand.

“I’m not leaving you.” 

“Go!” Dean shoved him back with his free hand, covering his escape with his own body and facing off against the kitsune. Dean must have managed to channel enough John Winchester into the order, or something, because he heard Tom take off, but Dean couldn’t stop his eyes from darting to the side, trying to make sure that Tom was gone, and that was when Ruddy charged again. Dean only had time to shield himself before he went down, the knife flying from his grip, spinning face down, pine needles and sticks biting into his palms. 

“You used to have quite a reputation, Winchester. I gotta say, I’m a bit disappointed.” Ruddy stood over him. All Dean could see were his boots, crusted in dirt. His head reeled and his lungs fought for air. 

“I’ll finish you and then go after the kid. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to him before Jacob. Snooze you lose.” His voice rolled, and he flipped Dean onto his back.

Ruddy’s eyes glinted in the moonlight as he bent closer in a crouch; Dean reached out with one hand, scrambling along the ground, searching for the cold metal of the dropped knife, his other hand fighting to hold Ruddy off. His fingers dragged on dirt, he stretched, fumbled for the knife. Clumsy, he shoved against Ruddy’s chest. Ruddy leaned down, getting closer. Dean’s fingers hit metal as Ruddy grabbed his chin in one hand and pulled his shoulder up with the other. His claws came out, pressing into the skin of Dean’s face and back and then breaking it, like a knife through cheese. Dean yelled. He could smell mint and beer on Ruddy’s breath. He wrapped his fingers around the knife. The kitsune’s eyes flashed to hungry sli ts. Dean jabbed his left arm up, stabbing Ruddy in the chest. For a moment Ruddy crouched, suspended over him. Surprise made his yellow eyes wide, he stumbled back, dropping Dean’s face, claws dragging along the back of Dean’s shoulder, tearing his flesh. Dean cried out and elbowed himself up, shoulder screaming. Ruddy crumpled to the ground, blood leaking from his lips as they moved like a fish out of water and then went still. He must have managed to hit Ruddy’s heart because the kitsune was definitely dead.

There was a rustle of bushes that had Dean tensing up and wishing he had pulled the knife out of Ruddy’s chest, but it was Tom who emerged. 

“I told you to run!” he hissed as Tom helped him to his feet. 

“I’m not leaving without you,” Tom said. 

They were moving through the woods again, and he blamed his spinning head for the fact that he had forgotten about the knife, until they were too far away to go back for it. Now, they were running through the woods with a kitsune somewhere on their tail and no weapon. 

_ 7 hours earlier  _ _ (11 years, 209 days, 12 hours after ) _

Dean heard the footsteps, and his blood froze in his veins: Tom was home. Jacob’s eyes flicked over to the door, hearing the same groan of the porch steps and Dean lunged, reaching for the gun. 

“Run, Tom!” he shouted as he slammed into the man. The gun went flying somewhere behind them. The kitsune’s eyes went wide with surprise and then sharp and feral with fear and anger. Dean slammed him back against the ground before he had a chance to react. Jacob’s six inch claws were swiping up at him. Dean rolled out of the way. He hoped Tom was running. The claws missed him by a hair’s breadth. Dean took a knee to the stomach, the air leaving his lungs like snow in the desert. He scrambled for the discarded gun, fingers stretching as he shoved Jacob and his claws as far away as he could. His fingers touched the steel. There was a sudden sharp burn across his thigh. He kicked out and the claws dragged deeper. He growled and threw his head back, then staggered up and trained the gun on the monster. The kitsune froze. Eyeing the gun and then Dean with cold hatred. Blood tickled his leg as it trickled down. Damn, he hoped Tom was long gone. The front door creaked open. 

“I told you to run,” Dean snapped, not taking his eyes off Jacob, whose chest was heaving with adrenaline and anger. 

“Your boy’s not going anywhere.” 

Dean’s heart stuttered at the cold, deep, and unfamiliar voice. His eyes darted over towards the door. A burly shape of a man had six inch black claws poised under Tom’s throat as he walked the boy into the now crowded entryway. 

“What the hell,” the newcomer said, taking in the situation with snort. 

Jacob’s eyes darted to the man. 

“One old ex-hunter too much for you to handle, boy?” 

Dean’s mind raced through possibilities and then kept coming back to Tom. Tom. Tom.

Tom’s eyes were wide with fear as the man stroked a claw across his chin, drawing a thin line of blood and making Tom flinch. 

“I suggest you drop the gun.” 

Dean hesitated for a moment and then lowered the Glock slowly to the ground, flicking the safety on, crouching, holding both hands up as he straightened.

“Alright, you made your point. Let him go,” Dean growled. 

“Kick it over.”

Dean kicked the gun away, and Jacob grabbed it from the ground. 

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” Dean said, keeping his voice even and reasonable. “Let him go, and you can do whatever you want with me.” 

“We’re going to be doing that anyway,” the man said with a cold laugh. He tossed something at Jacob's feet. Rope. 

“Don’t give us any trouble or your boy’s going to have a few new holes.” 

“So help me, if you lay another finger on him…” Dean hissed.

The man deliberately slid his claw gently across Tom’s throat slicing a thin red line. Tom held still, his eyes flickering to Dean. 

“You’ll what?” The man’s eyebrows rose expectantly. 

“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” 

The man laughed. 

Dean didn’t move as his hands were roughly tied behind him, just kept his eyes on the man, so he didn’t see the gun sliding through the air until it was colliding with his head. Everything went dark. 

_ Now (11 years, 209 days, 20 hours after) _

The asphalt under his feet felt like more of a reprieve than he wanted to admit. His legs were shaky, when he stepped onto the shoulder of the road. His breath was coming in uneven gasps, and his head throbbed in time with his racing heart, blood sluggishly trickled and crusted on his sliced leg and where Ruddy’s claws had torn through his shoulder, leaving him with a burning itch. He didn’t trust anything about this situation and swung an arm out to keep Tom next to him. His nephew’s chest was heaving with the run through the woods and, more than likely, fear. 

“Stay close,” he muttered, while his eyes roved over the empty tarmac and the dark tree line on the other side of the road. They were still in this game; there was no way it was over yet. They wouldn’t get off so easily. 

“Where-,”Tom started.

“Shush,” Dean cut him off and strained his ears for the slightest out of place sound. The hiss of a breeze through the trees raised goose bumps along his spine. The only way this was over was, if Jacob was dead. Dean had seen the hatred in his eyes; it wasn’t the kind that allowed mercy or the kind that faded with time. It was the kind that burned for vengeance, until it consumed every waking thought, the kind of hate he had grown up seeing in his father’s eyes, the kind of hate he had felt himself, the kind that ended in death. 

_ 2 hours earlier  _ _ (11 years, 209 days, 18 hours after) _

Dean came to slowly. He hesitated on the razor's edge of consciousness, and the dull pain that ached through his skull and ran down his back told him he didn’t want to wake up. There was something gnawing at the edge of his mind, some reason he had to drag himself back. There was a voice. It was repeating the same word over and over. It came through the darkness and spiked the pain in his head. Slowly, he recognized the voice, if not the words. It was Tom. With that realization, he cracked open his eyes. It was dark, moonlit. He didn't recognize the cavernous wooden building, a barn, maybe? With awareness came pain. His whole body was tense. Sharp pain shot from his shoulders down to his back. He tried to move, to drag his hand down to his face, but realized, with a sinking feeling deep in his gut, that his hands were tied over his head, half numb,  shoulders pulled almost out of the socket, his feet barely brushing the ground.  Never a good thing to wake up with your hands tied over your head.  He let out a groan, half pain and half exasperation as everything came into focus. 

“Uncle Dean!” 

Dean coughed to clear his throat. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said, biting off a groan as he shifted his weight, taking some of the pressure off his wrists and shoulders by standing on the tips of his toes. He managed to pivot himself around to find Tom. He was sitting, back against a pillar, hands tied around it. 

“You okay?” Dean asked, squinting to take in his nephew.  The kid was pale, but Dean didn’t see any blood or bruising, except the thin rust-red trickle from his neck and chin that had smeared and dried.

“I’m fine.” 

“They didn’t hurt you?” Dean craned his neck to meet Tom’s eyes, pain shooting through his head at the strain. 

Tom shook his head; Dean felt the vise around his lungs loosen.

“They stuck you in the trunk. You were bleeding.” Tom’s voice was stangly flat. 

“Hey. Tom, look at me.” 

Tom dragged his eyes over to Dean; his mouth moved like words were stuck in his throat, then, with a rasp, he asked, “What are they?” 

“They...uh…” Dean yanked as hard as he could on the ropes, pulling his weight up and dropping it down. Pain shot through his wrists and down his shoulders, whiting out his vision for a moment, but the rope and beam held. When he could talk again, he formed the words around a pant, “ they’re a kind of monster, a kitsune.” 

Dean darted his eyes back to his nephew; Tom’s eyes went wide, his shaggy hair was messy and brushed his eyelashes, making him look years younger. 

“They...can’t… how can this be happening?” Tom looked around the room, like he was hoping someone was going to jump out and admit that it was all a hoax.    
“It’s gonna be alright,” Dean found himself saying, even though the words rang a bit hollow coming from the guy dangling from the ceiling. Their captors were gone for now; trying to let them stew in their fear, most likely. Whatever the reason, Dean wasn’t about to complain; if they were getting out of here, they had to do it now. 

“Any chance you have some wiggle room?” Dean said, trying to drag Tom back from whatever he was seeing in the middle distance. Tom slowly pulled his eyes back to Dean and held his gaze for a moment before nodding.

Tom rolled his wrists where they were secured behind him around the pillar. After a minute or so, he shook his head. 

“Okay,” Dean nodded, his eyes darting around the old barn looking for something, anything to get them out of this. 

“Monsters?” Tom’s voice was little more than a whisper. 

Dean could sense his eyes on him. 

“Yeah, they’re sort of — real.” 

“Ghosts, vampires, werewolves?” Tom’s voice was heavy with disbelief. 

Yep, affirmative on all of those.” Dean dropped his eyes down to his boots and sniffed. 

Tom laughed, hollow and sharp.

“You’re kidding.” 

“I’m not.” Dean tilted his head back toward Tom and let him see the honesty in his eyes. 

“Wait, how? If they’re real, how come no one knows?” Tom’s eyebrows furrowed and then arched, shifting his bangs. 

“Bad advertising?” Dean huffed. There was a span of silence where Dean could hear the rush of blood in his ears and Tom’s abbreviated breaths. Tom finally broke the silence, shifting against the pillar, the scuff of his tennis shoes against the floor as loud as a shout in the heavy silence. 

“But how do you…?” 

“Your dad and I... hunting was kind of the family business.”

“Hunting monsters?” 

Dean looked up at the high ceiling. “Yep.” 

“Dad didn’t die in a car accident.” He wasn’t asking a question, but Dean looked down at his feet and answered anyway. 

“Ghost.” 

“All these years you’ve been lying to me — hunting monsters?”

“No, not anymore; I’m — retired — since Sam…” 

“How come you never said anything?”

Dean tugged again. The ropes held. “Look, I never wanted you to get involved in this crap.” Dean looked over at Tom and he couldn’t help remembering the little boy that ran to Dean’s room during thunderstorms, the little boy that curled up in his lap and asked for one more story, the little boy that had to sleep with a night-light, the little boy Dean had reassured a hundred times. Now, Tom was looking at him with those same full eyes, like he was hoping this was all a big joke and that Dean would tell him not to be afraid, that he was safe, that there was no monster in his closet, that a blanket fort was enough to protect him from a storm, that nothing bad would ever happen to him as long as Dean was around. But, he couldn’t keep promises like those. 

“I didn’t want you to grow up scared,” he said, finally. 

“So you thought lying to me was better?” Tom arched an eyebrow. 

“I was trying to protect you.” 

Tom snorted and leaned his head back against the pillar before straightening back up. 

Dean was silent. He ducked his head to meet Tom’s eyes. 

“I’m going to get you out of here, Tom, I promise,” he said. Tom opened his mouth to say something, probably,  _ “how the hell do you plan on doing that? _ ,” but then the door to the barn slid open and both of them turned to look as Jacob came in. He was alone. 

_Now_ _(11 years, 209 days, 20 hours after)_

He sensed the movement more than saw it, just a flickering at the edge of his vision. He reached for Tom, but the kitsune was fast. Too fast. Tom was ripped away from his grasp, and Dean’s fingers closed on air. Jacob stood with a gun trained on Dean and claws around Tom’s throat. Dean raised his empty hands. 

“Let him go, Jacob,” he said. “I’m the one you want.”

“You’re right, you are the one I want.” Jacob’s fingers tightened around Tom’s throat. “And now I have you.” He laughed, a stifled wrong sound. “It was always going to end here.” 

Jacob was close enough that Dean could see the whites of his eyes. “I want to see that look on your face when you lose everything, like you’re already dead.” His voice was reedy and fast, cutting through the quiet. “Right before the light goes out of your eyes, I want you to know you’re alone. That you fought and thought you won just to end up here.”

Dean let his eyes travel to Tom. 

“Tommy, look at me.” Dean said, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” Tom looked at him with his eyes blown wide, but he nodded, a slight motion. Nothing but trust. Dean's heart was beating against his ribs like a hammer, and his mind was screaming, his body tensing. The monster was going to kill Tom. Tom was going to die. Tom couldn’t die. Tom couldn’t die. _ No. No. No. _

_ 1 hour, 30 minutes earlier (11 years, 209 days, 19 hours after) _

“You’re not a killer,” Dean said, when he could breathe; he wished it sounded less like a wheeze. The barn was slanting and shifting, but Dean was pretty sure that was just the pain, lack of proper circulation, and likely concussion, rather than the world dramatically tilting on its axis. Jacob had been pummelling his unprotected ribs for the last few minutes, and they burned sharp and numb at the same time. He had tried to tense against the blows, but it was hard to do when you were dangling like a dead chicken. Dean didn’t dare dart a glance at Tom, the focus was on him for now, and that's where he wanted it. The kid had let out an impressive string of curses when Jacob had started in on Dean, until he realized Jacob was retaliating by hitting Dean harder and faster, then, he had become as silent as a waiting wraith. Despite the cool dry air, sweat dripped down Dean’s brow and stung his eyes. Jacob huffed a humorless laugh. 

“It’s not so easy to break into morgues when you’re ten.” He turned away, starting to pace, his hand resting on his hip where the gun glinted in the light. 

“My uncle Ruddy found me, almost starving. He didn’t have the same qualms about killing as my mother.” Jacob’s boot scraped against the boards he was pacing, wearing a path in the dust.

Dean’s head was swimming, a worrying lightness starting to take over, he bit down on the edge of his tongue to try to ground himself. He couldn’t pass out now. Dean thought longingly of the small knife he had tucked in his boot. He rolled his ankle a bit and he could tell it was still there. No way would he be able to reach it. But...if he could manage to wedge the boot off and kick it all the way over to Tom...

“I know I said I would only kill you, Winchester” Jacob stopped in front of him and pulled Dean’s chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes, “but what I had to do to survive without my mother—.” There was hate and something else almost like regret in Jacob’s eyes. He released his grip. “I watched you murder her.” He spat out the words. “You left me alone in the world.” Jacob was inches from his face now. 

“I’m going to do the same to you,” his eyes went dead, and his voice was cold as ice, “and then I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

_ Now (11 years, 209 days, 20 hours after) _

His mind was running, jumping, stuttering, but it always ended up right here: Tom was about to die, and there was not a thing Dean could do to save him. Tom held his eyes, then Tom’s eyes darted to the side and down and then back up at Dean; Dean lifted his chin just slightly. He was ready when Tom slammed his foot down on the arch of his captor’s foot. Jacob startled, his grip loosening and his attention drawn down to Tom. Dean lunged. The gun flashed. The shot went wide. And Tom was free.

Dean dove at Jacob, their bodies slamming asphalt. The impact jarred his shoulder, and white flared in his eyes before fading. He and Jacob were a tangle of limbs. Dean was in a place where nothing else mattered, just ending the threat. Protect. Protect. Protect. His body was moving on it’s own, ignoring his injuries, numbing them with adrenaline. He found himself on top of Jacob, his fists slamming into his face. He could feel the crunch and squeal and thud of bone on bone. Blood, he didn’t know if it was Jacob’s or his own, was covering his knuckles and Jacob’s face. Jacob bucked up, and writhed under him. His clawed fingers found the tears in Dean’s shoulder and dug in; the pain spiked through him, angry and hot, breaking through the singled minded haze long enough for Jacob to throw him back, and then there were claws at his jugular, pressing into the soft skin, his pulse thundering under them. He growled like an animal and almost lunged at Jacob anyway. The kitsune wiped his free hand, shaking, under his nose, smearing blood. His hand trembling on Dean’s throat, he kicked Dean’s shins, bringing him to his knees, hard. 

“Damn you,” the man hissed and shook the blood off his hand, spraying droplets on the black tarmac. His eyes drilled into Dean, and his claws, flush with Dean’s throat, twitched. 

“Do you know where the pituitary gland is?” The man traced his claws across Dean’s face. “Right up behind your nose.” His pointer finger slowly ran down the length of Dean’s nose. Dean’s nostrils flared, his breath coming heavy and fast. The smell of blood and the cold tingle of dew hung in the night air. 

“Normally, I don’t play with my food.” The words were hissed between clenched teeth. “But, I think I’ll make an exception for you, Winchester.” 

Jacob’s eyes turned to slits, and the claws clutching his throat tightened as Dean tried to pull back. Jacob clutched Dean’s chin, and claws pressed into the skin next to his nose—a loud crack, and the claws were gone; Jacob's eyes went wide, and he dropped to the ground at Dean’s feet. 

Dean whirled around, and Tom was standing with Jacob’s gun at the edge of the road.

Dean gasped in a breath and staggered to his feet, looking down at the dead kitsune. Jacob’s eyes were surprised and still. A hole was punched through his chest, edged with a few drops of blood. Dean lurched away. He turned to Tom, who was looking into the space where Jacob had been standing moments before, hands grasping the gun and shaking. He dropped the gun suddenly, like it was on fire; it hit the asphalt with a clatter. He breathed in big gulps of air, like it was too thick. Dean limped across the span of road that separated them. 

“Tommy,” he said, reaching out for his nephew. Tom backed away looking down at his feet. 

“I…” His face blanched and glistened with his sweat. “I...” he looked around like he had lost  something. “I …” 

“I know,” Dean said. 

Tom’s eyes wandered past him to the ground.

Dean took another step forward, hands held up like he was approaching a frightened animal. 

“I kill—” He looked up with his eyes wide. “I killed him.” 

“Thomas. Hey, look at me.” Dean reached out, grabbing his shoulder. 

“No,” Tom muttered and jerked away from Dean’s grip. “No, no, no.” His breaths were short and rapid. He clutched his chest. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean said. “Look at me.” 

Tom slowly drew his eyes up. 

“You’re okay,” Dean said. Tom’s face was that scary white that meant falling. Dean pulled him in, just as Tom’s knees gave out, bringing both of them to the rough ground in a controlled fall. His shoulder pulsed with pain. Tom was limp, caving into Dean’s chest, then rigid with wrenching sobs, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s shirt like it was life or death. Dean pulled him so he was leaning propped against Dean’s tented knee and held him close against his chest. They stayed like that, Dean murmuring, over and over again, lies about everything being alright, until Tom’s sobs were just shaky breaths. 

  
  



	7. Frozen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life has been crazy lately, and I was caught up in work. Let me know what you think.

_11 years, 210 days after_

“You need a hospital,” Tom said, eyes darting over to Dean. 

He shook his head. “Too hard to explain; not with those two bodies back there.”

“But…”

Dean braced his good arm on the dash as they turned a corner. 

“I can patch myself up,” he said. Tom’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. 

They had found Jacob's car not far down the road, parked on the shoulder. Dean had managed a quick hot wiring, and Tom had insisted on driving when Dean had almost taken a nosedive onto the pavement. 

Exhaustion pulled at the edge of his mind. His body ached and tremors of pain shot from his shoulder down his arm and back. He grit his teeth. 

Dean thought Tom would be full of questions, now that there was time to breathe, but Tom just kept his eyes on the road, his lips pressed thin.

When they pulled up to the house, it was all the same. Dean wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, maybe all the doors and windows blown straight off their hinges, _something_ proclaiming that the sanctuary had been violated, and that their little slice of the world had been taken, but it was quiet. The door was closed. 

Inside, the only sign of the intruders was a pile of coats ripped from hooks in the entryway where Dean had fallen back against them in the scuffle. 

All the same, he walked through the house, pistol in hand, Tom behind him. It was clear. Empty. He hung the coats back up even though his arm burned and bending made his head roar.

Tom was following him around which was a problem because Dean wanted to take care of his wounds alone. Tom didn’t need to see anymore of this. 

“You hurt anywhere else?” Dean asked, stopping in the kitchen and grabbing the first aid kit from the top of the fridge. He turned around and gently inspected the narrow slice the kitsune had left on the kid’s cheek and the one lower on his throat. Tom shook his head. Dean nodded. He peeled open an alcohol swab with his teeth, still cradling his arm against his side. 

Tom let him swab the two cuts, just wincing slightly. 

“I can do it,” he muttered, snatching the small butterfly bandage Dean was fumbling to open.

When, between the two of them, they had managed to place the bandages over the widest parts of the cuts, Dean looked over Tom one last time, searching for anything that he might have missed. 

“I’m fine. You're the one bleeding out.” Tom rolled his eyes but his words were flat. “I let you take care of me, so it’s your turn now,” he said, trying to peel back Dean’s jacket. 

“Whoa, I got this, kid.” Dean stepped back, trying to stifle a hiss when his leg throbbed at the pull. 

“I’m not a kid.” Tom scowled and stepped forward. 

“Hey, it’s not that serious; it’s hardly even bleeding anymore.” Dean dodged his hands. “I’ve patched up worse by myself loads of times.” He smiled. He hoped it was a reassuring smile and not the grimace it felt like. 

“Would you let Dad help you if he were here?” Tom said, folding his arms across his chest. 

Dean swallowed. The memory of a hundred different post-hunt ministrations flew across his mind: Sam’s worried face with that little crease between his eyes, his hands gentle and sure, his voice pitched soft and low.

“Look, I know what I’m doing. I promise,” Dean said. Tom didn’t need to see this. He didn’t want him to see this. He was supposed to live a normal teenage life, one where you didn’t have to put stitches into someone you love, wipe away their blood, and pray that they kept breathing through the night. 

Tom’s scowl deepened, and Dean sensed an argument. Before Tom could protest, he grabbed the first aid kit. 

“I’m gonna get cleaned up,” Dean said, heading to the bathroom and grabbing a clean t-shirt and sweat bottoms on the way. When he was alone, he let his shoulders drop and the night come crashing around him.   
He managed to get into the shower with only the minor threat of passing out when he had rolled his shoulder to get himself out of the three layers he was wearing. The pounding water on his open wounds made his breath a gasping pant, but he let the water hammer away the blood and debris from the wounds. 

Three quarters of the way through it all, he was still conscious, so that was a plus. He had stitched up the deepest of the slices on his legs, bandaged the others, and only blacked out once. 

He had left the shower on so that if Tom was just outside the door (which he probably was) he wouldn’t hear any of the gasps and hisses that Dean couldn’t bite back.

He turned to see the shoulder wound in the mirror, and it didn’t look good. There were four lacerations; the middle two needed stitching. He managed to pull on the sweats over his newly bandaged leg, but after that, he slid down the wall. 

His whole body was shaking now, his knees too weak to support him. His hand was shaking too bad to even consider trying to reach around and stitch up the back of his shoulder. 

Everything sort of faded out. He could hear rain. He was going to drown. It would be cold. So cold. Everything got dark and soft, the pain rolling away from him, the sound of the rain distant now. There was a far off pounding. Then he was gone. 

***

“Dean!” 

The sound came through the dark; behind it, water hummed. Rain. No, the shower. There was something touching his face. Hands. They were warm and insistent. 

“Wake up.” 

He cracked open his eyes. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Tom’s face swam in front of him. Guess he shouldn’t have taught him to pick a lock.

“Uncle Dean? Are you okay?”

Dean thought he managed to nod. He was being dragged up and then out of the humid steam filled bathroom and down the hall. His feet were somehow supporting him. Tom felt small under his arm. 

The pain came back sharp and in ceaseless waves that cleared the fog. Tom settled him in a kitchen chair. 

“Drink this.” 

There was a soda in his face, and he took it. He drank most of it in one go, the sweet cola taste sticking to his tongue. 

“Thanks,” He said, straightening and trying to regain a bit of his dignity.

“Tell me what to do.” Tom’s face appeared in front of him. When had he grown up?

“Tom-”

“No, tell me what to do.” Tom’s lips were tight and his hand on Dean’s shoulder was firm. 

Dean’s head dropped to look at his hands. His stomach twisted around the cola. 

He remembered the first time he had stitched up his Dad after a hunt gone wrong. He had been nine, and his Dad had passed out halfway through, leaving Dean to finish alone, hands shaking, blood everywhere, Sammy knocking at the bathroom door, fear and the musky smell of sweat, the metallic tang blood in the air, and the sharp scent of alcohol. His hands shook for an hour afterwards, and no matter how much he had washed them, he couldn’t seem to get rid of the blood. 

“Uncle Dean.” Tom wasn’t backing down.

“Grab the alcohol, you gotta flush the wound out.” Dean moved, straddling the chair, arms resting on the back of it, giving Tom access to his back. He could hear him pop the cap behind him. 

“Alright, just pour it in the scratches.” Dean tensed, locking his jaw in preparation. Tom was hesitating. 

“Do it.” Dean said. The alcohol splashed over his shoulder and back, and agony shot through him. He instinctively arched away from the pain. Darkness edged his vision; he bit down on his lip and focused on the way the sink dripped. Ping. Ping. Ping. He couldn’t pass out. He wouldn’t pass out. He couldn’t leave Tom alone. 

“Keep going.” Dean was panting. “Gotta get it all clean.” Tom poured the alcohol again and Dean’s fingernails dug into his palms. 

“Okay, good.” Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady. His head was spinning, and everything felt unreal. 

“Now you’re going to put in some stitches.” 

“Okay.” Tom was rummaging through the first aid supplies on the table. “Okay.”

His voice was that studied calm that he had when Dean had spent the afternoon teaching him to drive on backroads and then told him to drive to the supermarket. He had white knuckled the wheel the whole time. 

“It’s basically like that sewing you did in Home Ec. last year; that hot pad you gave me, remember?”

“It was in Family and Consumer Science, and I got a D on that assignment.” 

Dean laughed, and it was sharp in the predawn quiet. “Yeah, it was pretty bad.” 

Tom stepped into his line of sight, pulling a suture needle from a sterile wrap. 

“It’s curved.” 

“Yep, easier that way.” 

Tom swallowed; his brows kept pulling together. 

“You don’t have to do this.” 

Tom shook his head. “Yeah, I do.” 

Dean met his eyes and then nodded. “You got this. I’ll be here the whole time. Thread the needle.”

Tom’s fingers were shaky, and threading took a few tries. Tom looked at him. Dean nodded, and Tom disappeared behind his back. Dean tried to relax. 

“You’re going to need to stitch up the middle two cuts; the others will be fine with some butterfly bandages. There should be something that looks like pliers, you can grip the needle with those. You’re going to pull the skin together,” Dean said. 

He felt Tom splay a cold hand across his back. He couldn’t help the flinch as Tom pressed the jagged edges of the wound closed. 

“Sorry,” Tom said. 

“It’s not your fault. You’re doing fine.” Dean said. He could feel Tom’s hand shaking. 

“S’okay, Tom.” Dean said. “Press the skin together and push the needle through, starting about a centimeter from the opening.”

Dean could picture the wound vividly; he had sown up Sam so many times. He bit down on his lip as the needle went in and that strange burning tug started. 

“Good, good,” Dean said, noting the slight shake in his own hands. His ears rang as he explained how to tie off the suture and pull it tight. 

Tom silently followed his directions. 

“Great, first one down,” Dean said, his breath coming a little short. He heard the snip as Tom cut off the excess thread. 

“Are you okay?” His nephew ducked in front of him, pale and shaky himself. 

“I’m fine. Sam stitched me up more times than I can count.”

Most of the time, if Sam was stitching him up, he would have had something to take the edge off of the pain, even if it was just a few shots of whisky, but he wasn’t about to inebriate himself with Tom so scared. 

As Tom started in with the next suture, Dean’s stomach rolled. He swallowed, trying to keep whatever was in his stomach there. 

That’s just what Tom needed, his uncle vomiting his guts out all over the kitchen floor. 

No passing out. 

The needle went in. 

No vomiting. 

The needle tugged. 

He could still hear the steady drip in the sink. The room felt wobbly. He closed his eyes and listened to the ping, ping, ping. 

“Good. You’re doing just fine,” Dean managed to say around his tight throat as he heard another snip. 

Soon he lost himself in the rhythm. Tom was clumsy but gentle. The burning ache and the nauseating tugging, again and again. 

“Good, Tommy,” He would say every so often and try not to flinch away, though he knew he was shaking. The cold room raised goosebumps on his skin. His head had moved from a vague throbbing to an obnoxious pounding. 

He closed his eyes so the kitchen wouldn’t spin.

Burning stab. 

Tug. 

Tug. 

Tug. 

Tom’s hand shaking against his back.

“Alright, last one,” Tom said; his voice was hoarse and light, barely cutting through the pain and fog. 

Dean nodded, not sure he could form words anymore without something breaking. When he heard the last snip he let his head fall forward, resting on the hard back of the chair. 

“Good, swipe it with alcohol and tape some gauze over it.”

He could feel Tom working careful and slow.He wished he would hurry. Dean wasn’t sure he was going to be able to stay conscious much longer. 

Maybe he passed out for a minute because Tom was in front of him and then trying to pull him up. 

“Hey, Uncle Dean, I’m going to get you to the couch, okay?” 

He sounded like Sam. Sam always took care of him. Sam meant that Dean could let go, but this wasn’t Sam, this was Tom, and Dean was still a head taller and fifty pounds heavier so he dragged himself up, leaning on Tom as he managed to shuffle over to the couch. 

His thigh was on fire with every step and he felt the pull on his fresh stitches as Tom tried to ease him down onto the couch. He laid down and realized he had left his feet on the ground when Tom swung them up one at a time. 

“You did good, kiddo,” Dean said. His eye lids dragged, and each time he blinked he seemed to lose a little time.

He blinked. 

Someone had pulled a blanket over him, and the shaking wasn’t as bad.

He blinked. 

Tom was sitting on the ground next to him.

He blinked. 

Tom’s head had fallen back onto the couch, and he was snoring softly. Mid-morning light was pouring in through the windows and birds were calling. 

Dean dropped his hand on Tom’s head, and Tom flinched awake with a start, fear making his breath short and his eyes wide until he took in the room and his uncle.

Dean’s heart sank. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said. 

“Do you feel better?” Tom asked scooting back and pretending he hadn’t nearly jumped out of his skin. His brows creased in sudden concern. 

“Yeah. I’m good. You should go get some shut eye in an actual bed.” 

Tom shook his head and grabbed a pillow from the couch, laying out on the floor next to the couch. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Tommy-”

Tom shook his head but didn’t look back at Dean. Dean dropped off again when Tom’s breaths finally evened out. 

_11 years, 210 days after_

When he woke up next, late afternoon light spilled in through the kitchen. His stomach growled, and his whole body ached. Tom was still asleep on the floor.

Dean slowly levered himself up and draped the blanket over his nephew. Quietly, he stepped over him. 

Getting dressed hurt like willingly rolling around in a pile of fire ants, but ten minutes later he was grabbing the keys to the Impala and writing a note for Tom in case he woke up.

The drive back up the mountain was uneventful. He blasted music in order to drown out the silence. He had some trouble finding Ruddy’s body. It had been dark. 

Finally, after backtracking for twenty minutes through the woods, he found it and managed to drag it, one armed, far enough from the trees to light it up. 

“Good riddance you sick bastard.” 

Jacob’s body was where he had left it, dragged off to the side of the road. Evening was drenching everything in hazy blue by the time he lit him up. 

Maybe if he had just let it go, if he had trusted Sam, maybe nothing like this would have happened.

He walked back to the car when the fire had died down. The Impala gleamed jet black in the silver of the rising moon. 

He could still hear the echo of the shot. He could still feel Tom’s trembling hand against his back. He could still feel him curled into a ball, sobbing. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelled, kicking the tire, not caring how the pain ricocheted through his body like a stray bullet. 

“Damn it!” 

Dean screamed up at the sky, fists clenched so hard they were numb. 

“Damn it!” 

Tom was supposed to be the one thing he got right. The one thing not tainted. The one person he could protect. 

***

Tom was awake when he got back. He didn’t ask where Dean had been. 

_11 years, 212 days after_

The shout woke him up, echoing through the dark. 

Tom. 

Dean was on his feet and down the hall in moments. He swung the door open, gun in hand. 

Tom was sitting up in bed, fists clutching the bedding at his knees, head down. Dean looked around the empty room and back to Tom, who was white and shaky, hair falling over his face, sticking to the nape of his neck with sweat.

Nightmare. The past few days had made both of them trigger happy. Literally, in his case. Dean flicked the safety and set the gun on the dresser. 

“Hey,” he said, and Tom’s eyes flickered over him. 

He sat down on the edge of his bed. 

Tom looked up at him with wide eyes, still trying to come out of whatever nightmare he had been in.

“You okay?” he asked. 

Tom breathed out a sigh and ran a hand through his dark hair, messing it up even more. His breathing was shaky. Silence hung between them. Outside, the first bird called and was answered by a slowly growing chorus. 

“I killed someone.” 

Dean saw Tom’s eyes dart up to him and then back down. 

“Hey, “ he ducked to meet his eyes “you killed a kitsune that would have killed you.” 

“But…,” Tom hunched down farther “I still killed someone.” His hands were twisted in the blanket on top of his knees. 

Birds chirped.

Tom shook. 

Dean pulled him in. 

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Tom fell into his shoulder, and Dean held him until his breathing slowed and he pulled back with a sniff. Dean let him go and started to stand up, but Tom grabbed his arm. Dean sat back down, resting his elbows on his knees, letting his hands tangle, studying the grey carpet and his bare feet. The sky out the window was turning a deep blue, and the light was fading into the room. 

The amulet dangled from his neck. He grabbed it, fingering the well worn face. 

“Sam gave me this the day after he found out about monsters,” Dean said, his voice loud in the quiet. “It was Christmas. He was pretty upset. I didn’t want him to know; he was just a kid.” 

“And you still have it?” Tom asked, voice raspy.

“I threw it away once,” Dean looked up at the wall, “but I got it back.” 

He cleared his throat. 

“When Sam was at school, at Stanford, there was this hunt that went really bad. I was alone, and I thought I was going to die.”

Dean remembered blood and pain, hardly being able to pull himself to the Impala. No cell signal. Fading in and out. 

He remembered fear so sharp it took his breath and hammered through his veins like poison. _He was going to die here. He was going to die alone._

“This amulet, I just kept holding it, like it was magic or something, like I wasn’t alone as long as I had it.” 

Dean swung the amulet off over his head, wrapping his fist around it like he remembered doing until his dad found him 36 hours later, half delirious, clutching the amulet and asking where Sam was.

It wasn't until two days later, when he woke up in a hospital, that he remembered Stanford. 

Dean dropped the amulet over Tom’s head. Tom looked down at the amulet resting against his chest and then back up at Dean. 

“He would want you to have it.”

“But…” 

“ _I_ want you to have it,” Dean said. 

Tom nodded after a moment, dropping his eyes back down.

“If you need to talk, I’m all ears. Anytime. About any of this,” Dean said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“No more lies?” Tom looked up.

Dean shook his head. “No more lies.” 

_11 years, 214 days after_

Dean was buried under the hood of the hatchback two days later when Tom slid up next to him, handing him the wrench he was about to look for. 

“Tell me about Dad.” 

Dean didn’t turn around; his hand with the offered wrench dropped onto the edge of the car’s interior. Tom had hardly spoken since it happened. Dean wasn’t sure what to say. He had peeked into Tom’s room on his way out to the garage; the kid was facing the wall in the same position Dean had left him in four hours before. 

“What do you want to know?”

“Something real.” 

Dean knew that Tom had been witness to the occasional nightmare: hell, Sam dying in his arms, Cass dying and leaving a charred impression of mangled wings burned into the cement, all nightmares mingled with memories that left Dean waking on a scream, throat raw, hands clenched tight and bloodless.

When Tom was younger, Dean would reassure him that everything was okay and send him back to bed. Now when it happened, Tom pretended it didn’t, casually walking by his room like he just happened to want a drink of water at 4am. He would turn on the radio in the kitchen, quiet so it was just a murmur, and Dean would fall back to sleep. He never understood how the kid knew to do that. 

Sam used to turn on the tv when they were at a motel, quiet so the voices were just a murmur and Dean could fall asleep again. They had never talked about it. 

He had never meant for Tom to know any of this. He still wished he could take it all back. He had deflected questions for the last eleven years, squirmed past real answers and had left Tom with the vague impression that he and Sam had been in the military once and then had become something like bounty hunters, always vague enough that he didn’t need to keep a complicated story standing on its own. Dean guessed that Tom chalked up his secrecy to trauma and PTSD, and so he usually left Dean alone when he came up against a wall. 

Dean turned to face his nephew. Tom’s eyes were curious and cautious. 

“Sam was a badass.” He looked at his boots, remembering. “He thought he was a better shot than me.” Dean grinned and met Tom’s eyes. 

“He could do some crazy stuff with a machete, but what he really loved was the research. He could find some obscure spell, or a cure, or a way to gank whatever we were facing, just in time to save our asses.” 

Dean told him about hunts, the easy ones, the ones where no one died, the ones that were like the happy endings of fairy tales: saving the girl, riding off in the Impala. Tom listened. There would be time later for the other stories, if Tom wanted to know, Dean would tell him. 

  
  
  
  



	8. Miles

_ 13 years, 345 days after  _

The Impala thrummed under them, eagerly eating up the road as they left town. Dean glanced over at Tom, grinning behind the wheel. His hair had grown out. Not like Sam’s, not that long, but long enough that if Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eye, he sometimes saw Sam. Long limbed and skinny like Sam had been at eighteen, right before Stanford. 

“What?” 

Dean shrugged. “Nothing.” 

“Why are you smiling?” Tom asked, and it was like a ghost calling a zombie dead because Tom hadn’t stopped grinning since they hit the road five miles back.

“Maybe because my nephew just graduated,” Dean said, reaching out and scrubbing his hair. 

“Hey!” Tom ducked, still grinning. 

_ 18 years, 345 days before  _

_ The rain was coming down in sheets, the cold soaking through Dad’s old jacket and reaching Dean’s skin, sending goosebumps scurrying across his arms and down his neck.  _

_ Freakin Washington. It was the end of May for crying out loud. Hunched against the cold, he splashed through the parking lot and slid into the driver's side door, shaking rain out of his eyes to look at his brother.  _

_ Sam was leaning back, feet up against the dash.  _

_ “Dude, feet down,” Dean said, smacking Sam’s leg.  _

_ “Dad’s not even here.”  _

_ “And…?” _

_ Sam sighed and folded up his long legs, dropping his feet to the floor.  _

_ “Got apple and cherry; which do you want?”  _

_ “Whatever.”  _

_ Dean handed him the cherry. Sam took it, peeked inside the little triangle box, closed it back up, and set it on the seat between them. _

_ “What’s up?” Dean asked around a mouthful of pie. He put the car into drive and slid smoothly out of the lot with one hand.  _

_ Sam shrugged. “Nothing.”  _

_ “Cheer up, man. You just graduated,” he shoved Sam’s shoulder with his elbow,“despite the evil influence of your dropout brother.”  _

_ Sam didn't even crack a smile.  _

_ Dean swallowed. The beat of the windshield wipers and the splash of the tires filled up the silence. He focused on the rain washed road.  _

_ “Hey, Sammy, Dad would have been there if he could have been.” He glanced over at his brother, but his stupid long hair was blocking his face. “You know that, right?” _

_ “You don’t always have to apologize for him.” The words were a sigh.  _

_ “I’m not.” Dean said. “Just saying…”  _

_ “Sure.”  _

_ They pulled up to the movie theater.  _

_ Sam looked around. “What are we doing here?”  _

_ “Going to a movie, genius.” Dean pulled the keys from the ignition,“It’s kind of what people do at a movie theater.”  _

_ Dean reached back and shoved Sam’s jacket at his chest.  _

_ “Let’s celebrate, geek boy; unless you would rather sit here and listen to emo music, maybe cry a little about the evanescence of life or whatever. I’m up for either.” _

_ A reluctant grin started at the corner of Sam’s mouth, and Dean beamed. Yahtzee.  _

_ 13 years, 345 days after  _

Tom was out, snoring lightly against the passenger side window. Dean turned the music down a notch and pressed the gas pedal down a little farther. The road flew by, and he smiled. 

Dean didn't know when the idea was born, sometime years ago when Tom was still riding in the backseat of the Impala, when he still called Dean, Uncle Dean, and when he still ran to him whenever he picked him up from school. Somewhere in those early years, they started talking about it. About the time Tom was in middle school, it got a name: The Road Trip. 

Three months, all 48 continental states. 

He hadn't realized how much he itched for the road until they were cruising past the state line and there were miles and miles of open road ahead of him. 

When they finally pulled over, it was hours past dark; Tom was blurry eyed, and Dean’s back and neck were aching. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. 

He dropped his duffle on the bed. The room was (just barely) a step up from the rooms he and Sam had generally stayed in.   
He pulled out the salt. Tom raised an eyebrow. 

“You don’t normally do all that.” 

Dean squatted next to the door and poured a thin line of salt. 

“Just because you didn’t know doesn't mean I didn’t,” he said. 

“You really think a ghost or something will show up?” Tom asked. The far bed squeaked as he sunk onto it. 

“Nah. Just being on the safe side.” Old habits. 

_ 18 years, 360 days before _

_ The jacket was only lightly used. Grey canvas. If you ignored the oil spot under the collar and the slightly frayed cuffs, it was good as new.  _

_ “Sammy.” Sam was rifling through a rack of t-shirts and looked up. Dean held up the jacket.  _

_ Sam wandered over, his unnatural height apparent in the way his shoulders towered over the clothing racks. He had shot up in the last few months, sailing past Dean’s 6’1”. His pants exposed a half inch of ankle, and his old jacket left three inches of his arms showing. It was hard to find anything secondhand that fit the sasquatch.  _

_ “Heh?” Dean asked, displaying the jacket.  _

_ Sam looked it over critically.  _

_ “Here, try it on.”  _

_ Sam stuffed his arms in the sleeves. It fit.  _

_ “Okay,” he said with all the enthusiasm of someone walking the plank.  _

_ “Okay? It’s freaking perfect!”  _

_ Sam’s face hadn’t lifted up in a smile all morning.  _

_ Dad was chasing a lead a state over; he had left early that morning, shaking Dean awake in the cool blue light before sunrise to tell him he’d be back in a couple of days.  _

_ Dad and Sam had been at it again last night. They couldn’t be in the same room for five minutes without one of them starting something. Last night, it had been Sam, complaining about his clothes, about how he was never in one place long enough to get a job and shop at a real store. Then Dad had laid into him about the importance of the job, and Dean had gotten dragged into it, “Why don’t you just hustle pool like Dean.” That had led to more shouting. Dean had finally got between them and taken Sam out to grab dinner to keep the peace.  _

_ Sam shrugged. “Yeah, it works.”  _

_ His face was flat.  _

_ For the last few months Sam had been slipping into this face. Apathetic, disconnected, like he was just waiting it out. Like this wasn't really his life.  _

_ Like he wasn’t staying.  _

_ Dean preferred the fights, the yelling, the bitch faces.  _

_ Dean’s expression must have given something away. _

_ “You’re right; it's great, Dean.” Sam smiled too late and too dead.  _

_ 14 years, 5 days after  _

In St. Louis, he helped Tom register for classes. In some out of the way diner in Vermont, over a plate of onion rings, they found him an apartment online. Sitting in the French Quarter in New Orleans, Tom ordered textbooks. They rambled their way through Mississippi, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas in a blur of sunlight, asphalt, music, greasy food and half sugared memories.

By the time they hit New Mexico, Dean felt like he had slipped back into a favorite pair of shoes, the leather worn down in the shape of his heel, of his toes. It felt like he had never left life on the road. 

Not like they hadn’t taken road trips before–short ones–(over to Sioux Falls, mostly), not like Dean hadn’t jumped in the Impala and driven until the lights blurred those few times when Tom was gone, but this was different. Living out of crappy motel rooms, being on the road day after day, it was like stepping back in time. 

But with creaky knees. 

Dean caught himself staring at Tom a lot, remembering when he was young enough to follow his uncle everywhere.

Tom was driving again. The lazy afternoon sun streamed through the Impala, warm against Dean’s face. Metallica was blasting through the speakers, and Tom was singing along. Dean’s mouth was suddenly dry, his throat tight. 

_ 18 years, 361 days before _

_ “Salt lines, Sammy,” Dean said, plopping onto the bed and scaring up an impressive cloud of dust.  _

_ Sam groaned a reply from the other bed.  _

_ “Come on, man.” Dean kicked off his boots and sighed. Sam still hadn't pulled his face out the pillow where he had dropped when they came in the door.  _

_ “Hey, I don’t make the rules.” Dean shrugged.  _

_ “You were the one who wanted to play for chores.” Sam’s voice was distinctly whiny and Dean was tempted to point it out, but thought better of it; Sam had been exploding lately with very little provocation, and if there was one thing he didn’t want to be, it was a child. 18 for barely a month, and he was already going crazy.  _

_ “Don’t be a sore loser, Sammy boy, and don’t forget the laundry and the guns.”  _

_ “It’s Sam.” He chucked a pillow at Dean’s head. Dean snatched it, burrowing down into it with a sigh.  _

_ He fell asleep to the sound of Sam cleaning the guns and the patter of the evening rain that started to beat against the window.  _

_ 14 years, 1 month, 10 days after  _

The late July heat was stifling in New Mexico. The room was the usual mix of cheap and gaudy. The dull smell of old cigarette smoke clung to the air. It was blasted hot outside, and the shadowy room was chilled. Dean sighed in relief and dropped the duffle on the first bed. Tom walked past him and threw his bag in the corner, reaching for the TV remote. Someone must have left the A/C on. But there was no sound, not the usual rumble and gusting noise he would expect, and this room was too crappy for a nice quiet A/C unit. Something was off. A chill ghosted across his forearm, raising goosebumps; he glanced under the window. Yep, the A/C was off. 

Shoot. 

“Tom!” Dean was lunging toward his nephew, reaching for his arm to drag him out of the room, when stuff started flying. 

“What the—” Tom’s mouth opened in an ‘o’ as Dean dragged him from the room, taking a hotel bible to the back. He slammed the door closed. 

“Son of a—,” Dean said, releasing the door handle. The window blinds flipped open and closed. 

“Ghost?” Tom’s voice was an octave higher than normal. 

“Yahtzee.” Dean may have been grinning. To be fair it had been a while since he got attacked by a ghost. 

_ 18 years, 361 days before _

_ Things went sideways about the time Dean found himself smashing into the TV. He had woken up to a ghost floating over him like a human shaped balloon and had shot a slug straight through it on impulse.  _

_ The sound woke Sam who was on his feet by the time the ghost tossed Dean like a used tissue across the room and into the TV.  _

_ He heard a crack, and his vision went white. He hoped it was the TV and not his head. His mind was detached from the chaos, but he heard Sam shouting distantly. Hoped he’d be smart enough to grab the salt.  _

_ 14 years, 1 month, 10 days after  _

Dean was eating Tom’s fries, his were already gone, and Tom had barely even touched his burger. 

“So, what do we do?” Tom asked. 

“Salt and burn.” Dean answered, stuffing another french fry in his mouth. 

Tom swallowed. 

“First we got to find out who the sorry SOB is, then I do some grave digging and light em up.” 

“Oh, is that all.” Tom laughed nervously. 

“You alright, kid?” 

Tom nodded. “Yeah, great.” He took another bite of his burger like he was trying to prove it. 

Dean couldn’t honestly remember his first ghostly encounter. It was either that abandoned house where Dad had him hold the flashlight inside a salt ring or that time in the diner that the ghost had clocked him with a plate. Or maybe it was that time the closet door kept opening and closing and Dean didn’t say anything, didn’t move a muscle all night, because Sammy was next to him, curled up, and he didn’t want to scare his little brother. That had probably just been the wind. 

_ 18 years, 361 days before _

_ Things got worse.  _

_ Sam was scrambling for the shotgun, loading salt rounds, and Dean was having his ass handed to him by Casper. The ghost was a forty something dude wearing a red baseball cap and grey jacket, its face spasming with anger as it tried to throttle him. _

_ The room tilted, everything off kilter. He was thrown back, hitting the wall next to Sam with his shoulder, hard. Sam stepped in front of him and fired off a round.  _

_ The ghost must have disappeared because Sam turned around and ran his unsteady hands over Dean’s face, his head, his ribs, looking for something that was really broken. Then he muttered a curse and manhandled Dean out of the room.  _

_ Sam got Dean tucked safely in the car and ducked back in the room before Dean could get his tongue to cooperate and head to stop ringing long enough for him to tell his brother not to. In less than a minute, Sam came out with their guns and jackets.  _

_ It was a testament to the kind of dump they were staying in that the police hadn't shown up yet, probably hadn't even been called.  _

_ The trunk slammed and Sam slid into the driver's seat. Dean fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them over.  _

_ “You forgot the salt lines?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse and his mouth feeling gummy with blood from a nicely split lip.  _

_ Sam’s eyes darted over to Dean. He nodded and started up the car.  _

_ 14 years, 1 month, 10 days after  _

Dean had his phone out, scrolling through local news. The sun was setting, gold outside the window. 

“Hey, look at this,” Tom said from across the table. He handed Dean his phone. “It’s an article about the motel from five years ago,” Tom explained. 

Dean was looking at a photo of an old man in a brown sweater-vest, standing in front of the motel, his hand buried in his pockets, a distant look in his eyes. 

“Abraham Mosely. They found his body in one of the rooms when someone checked in— a week after he died.”

“Nice job,” Dean said. He scanned the article. 

“He owned the motel,” Tom supplied. “So, that means he’s probably-”

“Buried around here,” Dean finished. 

“Looks like they never figured out how exactly he died, but it seems like foul play.” 

Dean nodded. “All the makings of a good old vengeful spirit.” He dropped a twenty on the table and slid out of the booth. Tom followed him. 

He had the address of the cemetery, only one in a town this small. They loaded up into the Impala, Dean behind the wheel. 

“Where do you want to hang while I do this? I think I saw a movie theater on Main Street; I could drop you off there.” 

Tom made what Dean would have called a bitch face on Sam. “I’m coming with you.” 

Dean shook his head. “Uh-uh, not happening.” 

“I’m not a kid anymore, Dean.” 

“It’s not about you being grown up,” Dean said. “You’ve never done this before. It could be dangerous.” 

“So, you shouldn’t go alone,” Tom countered. 

Dean sighed. “Listen—” 

“ You taught me how to fire a shotgun when I was ten. And I have plenty of experience digging. I think I’m qualified.”

Dean wavered. It  _ was _ a simple salt and burn. 

“Besides, if you drop me off, I’ll just hot-wire a car and follow you.”

Dean let out a huff between a sigh of exasperation and a laugh. 

“Shouldn’t have taught you how to do that.” 

Tom folded his arms across his chest. “Well you did.” 

They turned away from Main Street and toward the foothills on the edge of town where, according to his phone, the cemetery was supposed to be. 

_ 18 years, 361 days before _

_ Sam pulled over at a park. The fluorescent lights washed everything blue-grey inside the Impala. Dean could see abandoned swings swaying in a breeze for a moment before his view was obstructed by Sam, pulling his head toward him, looking for bumps along his skull.  _

_ “Where are you hurt?” _

_ Dean shoved him back.  _

_ “Get off, Sam.” He muttered. “I’m fine.” His hand was mostly steady as he fumbled for the door handle. He just needed a breath of air.  _

_ The night was chilly, the ground still shiny-wet from the rain earlier that day. His head throbbed along with his lip, shoulder, and hip. _

_ Sam slunk out of the car, keeping his head down. He shoved Dean’s jack into his chest, and Dean gingerly slipped it on, wincing as his shoulder twinged. Nothing was broken; he knew that much.  _

_ Sam leaned back against the car, his shoulders hunched under his new jacket.  _

_ “So, do you think it was in the room?”  _

_ Dean shrugged. “Must have been.”  _

_ “Dean, I—” His brother's words were immediately cut off when the ghost appeared, grey jacket, red cap, and white face, a few feet in front of them.  _

_ 14 years, 1 month, 10 days after  _

“If you’re going to do this, you have to agree to do everything I say,” Dean said as he slid the car into park and leaned back against the door, facing Tom in the dim back-glow of the headlights. 

Tom nodded. 

“Anything goes wrong, you run; you jump in the car, and you drive.” 

Tom nodded again. “Ok.” 

Dean held his eyes for a few more seconds before he nodded and slid out of the car. 

_ 18 years, 361 days before _

_ If it had followed them from the room then— _

_...Grey jacket...  _

_ “Sam the jacket!” Dean yelled. Sam had obviously noticed the same thing, and he was ripping it off before the words had left Dean’s mouth.  _

_ Just as Dean got slammed into the asphalt of the parking lot, head rebounding on the ground, Sam lit the jacket up.  _

_ Distantly, Dean thought of the fact that they were lucky that this sleepy town was so dead at 2am. Then he may have blacked out for a second.  _

_ 14 years, 1 month, 10 days after  _

Dean was watching the darkness, a rock-salt loaded shotgun held at the ready. Tom was down in the, now, three-foot-deep, hole. The night was sultry, warm, and still. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt and beaded along his upper lip. Tom’s breathing was heavy in the quiet. 

“Alright, time to switch,” Dean said, casting one last look around the empty graveyard and then reaching to help Tom out of the hole. 

He gave the shotgun over to his nephew and dropped down into the open grave. The musty sweetness of freshly turned earth filled his nostrils, and he started to dig. The rhythm returned like an old friend. The sound of his rough breaths, the scrape and gasp of the shovel lifting dirt, everything was falling back into place. 

He finally hit something solid with the screech of metal against fiberglass. 

“Got it,” he said, and he stood back to wipe sweat from his eyes. “Tom? Everything alright up there?” 

“Dean…” 

Just then, the screech of the EMF meter he had set on Abraham Mosely’s gravestone started to shrill. Dean dropped the shovel and pulled himself out of the grave. 

“Tom!” 

The shotgun went off, blasting the silence. A ghostly screech ricocheted around his ears. 

Dean scrambled to the extra shotgun leaning against the grave and whipped it around. Tom still had the gun up, but there was no ghost in sight. 

Then Dean was being thrown back, smacking against a gravestone with his side, his breath going in one big whoosh. 

“Tom!” 

Dean lurched to his feet and fumbled for the shotgun which had landed next to him. Tom was jumping into the grave. Definitely not running to the car. Dean grit his teeth and ran toward the grave. Abraham appeared in front of him, his eyes dark and angry. He could hear Tom banging the shovel down onto the coffin lid. The ghost seemed to realize what Tom was doing and turned from Dean towards Tom with an ear splitting wail. 

“Hey!” Dean shouted, bringing up the gun and firing. The apparition disappeared for a moment, but then, before Dean could get to the grave, he was back again, whipping an arm at Dean and sending his back into the trunk of a tree. Stars exploded in his eyes, but he crawled to his feet. The shotgun was gone, somewhere in the dark.

The ghost was diving for the grave. Tom. 

Dean rushed across the grass and skidded next to the grave. 

“Tom!” 

There was a woosh of yellow-orange light, a gasping noise, and the ghost went up in flames. 

Tom’s hands shot over the edge of the grave and Dean yanked him up. They both dropped to the grass, panting. 

“I told you to run.” Dean's head felt light. A tingling numbness ran from his elbow to his fingers; his hip throbbed, and his back felt raw. He was going to be black and blue in the morning. 

“You know I wasn’t going to do that,” Tom said in a gap between heaving breaths. 

“You should have.” 

They were silent. Their breaths rasping in the quiet. Crickets chirping. The stars were brilliant so far from the lights of town. The grave still cracked with flames at their feet. 

Dean smacked Tom’s chest with his hand. “One pointer, kid. Generally, you should get out of the grave before you light it up.” 

Tom laughed shaky.“Don’t think I’ll ever do that again.”

Dean couldn’t help the wide grin that tugged at his face. He felt light, the euphoria of a relatively clean win. 

_ 18 years, 361 days before _

_ Dean’s head was reeling, his hands shaky like an addict’s. His stomach churned. Sam’s face was swimming in front of him. The copper taste of blood stuck to his tongue. The acrid scent of the jacket burning filled his nose and stung his eyes.  _

_ “Dean, are you okay?” Sam’s face was pinched, his lips thin. He was reaching for Dean, hands gingerly feeling out the lump on the back of his head. Dean was pretty sure he groaned, trying to swat Sam’s hand away but missing. He pulled himself into a sitting position and dropped back against the wheel of the Impala.  _

_ “Talk to me, man,” Sam said. _

_ “M’ fine.”  _

_ “You’re not fine. You just got your head bashed in, twice.” Sam exhaled, dropping his hand from Dean’s head and looking at the ground. His hair dropped in front of his eyes for a moment.  _

_ “What year is it?” He looked up again, eyes narrowing.  _

_ “1867.”  _

_ “Not funny; how many fingers.”  _

_ “Four.” The number was probably right. Would have been easier if Sam would just hold still for one minute.  _

_ Sam hummed, and his lips got thinner.  _

_ Oops, wrong answer.  _

_ “I’m good. Just a concussion from your freakin jacket ghost throwing me against the wall.”  _

_ Sam shook his head.  _

_ “Can you stand.”  _

_ Dean nodded and dragged his feet toward him, hoping it wasn’t a lie. Sam helped drag him up. His stomach lurched. He threw his head to the side and hurled.  _

_ Sam was saying something Dean couldn’t make out over the sound of his guts spewing on the pavement and his brain trying to jump out of his eyeballs.  _

_ Eventually, the world came back into something like focus. His brother's hand was patting between his shoulder blades. He wiped a shaky hand against his mouth and straightened up. Sam had those kicked puppy eyes.  _

_ “You okay?” _

_ “Peachy.” The word scraped along his raw throat.  _

_ Sam helped him limp to the car. It took ten minutes of arguing to convince him not to take him to the hospital.  _

_ By the time they got back to the trashed room, Dean wanted nothing more than to roll up in the musty sheets and sleep until his head stopped pounding. It took him another ten minutes to make Sam stop fussing, and then, finally, he was dropping down (very gently) on the bed fully clothed. The room was cool, and he shivered slightly in his damp clothes, but sleep took precedence over a warm shower or dry clothes. He felt Sam wedge his boots off and heard the soft thump as they hit the ground. He heard Sam lay the salt lines, the shake of the salt spilling, his brother's consciously quiet pattering around the room, the blessed flick of the lights going off. His head hammered in the dark.  _

_ “Dean?” Sam’s voice was quiet and cautious, and only a few feet away.  _

_ “Hum?”  _

_ He heard his brother swallow.  _

_ “I...I did it on purpose, Dean.” His voice choked, and Dean opened his eyes. Sam was sitting on the ground, knees to his chest, leaning against the opposite bed and facing Dean. His eyes were hooded in the dim light coming from the bathroom.  _

_ “I didn’t forget the salt lines.” Folded up like that, he looked five years younger than he was. “I was just so tired of it all — all of Dad’s rules.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought one night wouldn’t matter.” His head dipped down onto his knees.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry.”  _

_ Dean felt his chest tighten. “The jacket would have been inside the lines anyway Sam; s’not your fault. It was stupid, but this isn’t your fault.” _

_ “I know. I know. But what if something had come in? I just left you—”, Sam’s fists balled, and he looked up; the bathroom light caught the glisten in his eyes,“I left you open. You were counting on me and I let you down. I couldn’t protect you.” His voice was thick. His shoulders slumped forward, making him look small .  _

_ Dean remembered the shtriga all those years ago and felt his heart shudder. He forced his mind from the thought.  _

_ “I’m alright, Sammy,” Dean said.  _

_ “I know.” Sam dipped his head a couple of times, like it could cement that fact.  _

_ “I know you always have my back,” Dean said.  _

_ Sam swallowed like his throat was dry. His nod was a jerk.  _

_ “Then, can we please go to bed already?” Dean threw the extra pillow from his bed at Sam to break the moment.  _

_ “You know I’m waking you up every hour, right?” Sam stood up, pillow in hand.  _

_ Dean groaned. “That’s just a myth.”  _

_ Sam shook his head. “Just in case.”  _

_ Dean didn’t protest past a grumble. If it made Sam feel better, he would survive the hourly checks to make sure he wasn’t slipping into a coma.  _

_ He heard Sam moving around the room, probably getting into sweats. The heater, gurgling and sputtering like a dying man, droned through his aching head. The room was still too cold after the night's drizzle, but eventually, he started to drift.  _

_ When Sam carded a hand through his hair, he was just on the soft edge of sleep, his body sinking and everything fading, so he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not. Sam’s hand was warm though.  _

_ “You can't count on me, Dean.” Sam’s voice was quiet, like he was trying not to wake him up.  _

_ “I'll let you down.”  _

_ 14 years, 1 month, 10 days after  _

They were laying out in the Impala. Dean in the front and Tom in the back. Neither of them really felt like sleeping in the room after finding out that old Abraham had laid dead in the room for a week before he was found. They had swung by and picked up their stuff. All was quiet. Then they had driven up to the foothills and off on a little access road to park. 

Dean’s left side throbbed, and he knew his back was going to be one big bruise in the morning, but right now, he was still riding the high of the hunt. 

The windows were rolled down, and a blessedly cool breeze wafted over them. 

“So, that was like an everyday thing for you and Dad?” Tom’s voice floated over the seat. 

Dean opened his eyes and shrugged. “Pretty much.” 

“And you liked it?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Do you miss it?” 

Dean didn’t know if it was the dregs of adrenaline running through his body or the peaceful quiet, and the pull of sleep on his eyes, but he answered honestly. 

“Sometimes.” 

Tom was quiet for a moment. 

“You were good at it, huh?” 

Dean snorted. “The best.” Maybe it was the five painkillers he had popped. Maybe he had a bit of a concussion. 

Tom huffed. “Humble.” 

“Never said that was one of my many qualities.” 

He could almost hear Tom’s eyes rolling.

“Goodnight.” 

“You did good today, kid. Really good.” 

“Thanks,” Tom muttered. 

“Night, Tommy.” 

Dean’s eyes dropped closed. Crickets and the distant yapping of coyotes filled the darkness along with Tom’s quiet breathing. He fell asleep softer than he had for years. 

_ 14 years, 1 month, 17 days after  _

Sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon a week later, legs dangling, taking turns tossing rocks down the gorge, Tom turned to Dean. 

“Uncle Dean.” 

The formality brought Dean’s head around from scanning the ground for the perfect pebble. 

“You know you can go back to it, right?” 

“What?” Dean searched Tom’s face, but his nephew’s eyes dropped, and he fiddled with a smooth rock, turning it over and over in his fingers. 

“I know you gave up hunting for me.” 

Dean made a cut off noise deep in his throat that Tom ignored. 

“It’s alright. You can go back now, if you want,” Tom said. He looked out over the canyon, avoiding Dean’s eyes. “I want you to know you can go back to it now. You gave it up for me–”

“Whoa, hold on a second.” Dean grabbed Tom’s shoulder and waited for him to meet his eyes.

“I have never, not for a moment—not for a second—regretted that decision,” he said. 

Tom’s eyes softened. He swallowed, nodded, and looked down at his feet, his thumb rubbing the surface of the rock like he was hoping a genie lived inside. His eyes flicked back to Dean. 

“I know. But, I’m not just saying this because I feel guilty, or whatever. I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy.” The muscles in Tom’s jaw twitched. 

“I am happy,” Dean said, the words on the edge of a laugh. He spread his arm out. “I’m sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon with my nephew, the world isn’t ending, and we have nowhere to be.” 

Tom glanced at the view. Dean sighed. 

“Look kid, it was never about hunting. I mean sure, I miss the adrenaline rush and getting to beat the crap out of something every other day, sometimes, but honestly? It was always about family.” 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands meeting. 

“And you're my family now.” He looked down at his hands. He could feel Tom’s eyes on him. Gravity pulled on his feet. 

“Hunting without Sam, it wouldn’t be the same.” He blew out. “And just cause you're leaving doesn't mean I’m going to have a midlife crisis.” He threw a grin at Tom, who looked far too serious but nodded all the same. 

“I’m not leaving you. I’m always going to need you,” Tom said, tossing the rock into the void. 

Dean looked down and followed the rock with his eyes as it snapped and clattered on the cliff side. 

“Good, cause I’m always gonna be here.” He leaned back. “Now, we done with this chick-flick moment already?” He slapped Tom’s back. “Lets get some grub.” 

They walked back to the Impala. 

With _Ramble On_ blasting through the speakers, the heat stifling, the leather burning under them, and the sun glancing off the windshield, they turned back onto the black asphalt and drove.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I think there are just two more chapters left, so I will hopefully have those posted quicker. Comments are great!


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